LETTERS 


%ME  VAN  VORST 


Q.(^- 


WAR    LETTERS    OF 

AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 


Copyriiiht,  Marccau,  New  York 

MARIE  VAN  VORST 
American  Ambulance,  Neuilly 


WAR    LETTERS    OF 
AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 


BY 

MARIE  VAN  VORST 

AUTHOR  or  "big  TREMAINE," 
"MARY  MORELAND,"  ETC. 


WITH  SIXTEEN  ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW   YORK:    JOHN    LANE    COMPANY 

LONDON:   JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEYfcHEAD 

MCMXVI 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 

New  York,  U.S.A. 


DEDICATION 


I  INSCRIBE  these  letters,  written  during  the  Great 
War  In  the  countries  at  war,  to  Comte  HENRY 
DADVISARD,  Captain  of  the  First  Regiment  of 
Cuirassiers,  which  he  left  voluntarily  to  join  the 
66th  Regiment  of  Infantry,  In  order  to  give  him- 
self more  entirely  to  the  defence  of  his  country. 

The  memory  of  this  gallant  soldier  of  France 
Is  to  me  a  precious  and  a  cherished  memory.  I 
shall  recall  him  always  as  one  of  the  most  vivid 
spirits,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  intellects,  one  of 
the  finest  men  I  ever  knew. 

This  young  Frenchman  fought  and  fell  glori- 
ously, as  hundreds  of  thousands  of  young  Eng- 
lishmen and  Frenchmen  have  fought  and  fallen 
gloriously.  Their  spirit  lives,  their  courage  and 
patriotism  live,  to  animate  and  inspire  these  allied 
nations,  whom  no  less  spiritual  power  will  ever 
conquer,  and  with  whose  Cause  is  the  ultimate 
victory. 

M.  V.  V. 


M134130 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


Marie  Van  Vorst,  American  Ambulance,  Neuilly 

Frontispiece 

Robert  Hugues  Le  Roux 14 

Mrs.  Vanderbilt  and  Mrs.  Munroe  with  the 

Boys  of  Ward  77 96 

*'I   Wonder  What  They  Are  Thinking  Of  in 

This  Silent  Room  " no 

**  He  Will  Never  Fully  See  His  Gardens  Again"  i  10 

CoMTE  Henri  Dad  visard 148 

The  Hon.  Robert  Bacon 162 

Mrs.  Benjamin  Guinness 176 

ViscoMTE  Edgar  de  Bresson 188 

Mrs.  William  K.  Vanderbilt  and  Mrs.  George 

Munroe 214 

Mrs.  William  K.  Vanderbilt 232 

Croix  de  Guerre 254 

The  Author  at  Salson  Aggiore 259 

Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz 272 

Miss  B.  S.  Andrews 282 

"  Ernestine  Sent  Her  Motor  for  Me  "...  306 
"  From  the  Terrace  You  Look  Over  Miles  "of 

Tuscany" 306 

Madame  Robert  Hugues  Le  Roux     .     .     ,     .314 


WAR    LETTERS    OF 
AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 


WAR   LETTERS   OF  AN 
AMERICAN  WOMAN 


To  Signore  Gaetano  Cagiati,  Vallomhrosa 

4,  Place  du  Palais  Bourbon,  Paris, 
July  15th,  1914. 

My  dear  Gaetano, 

I  think  your  idea  that  I  should  come  down  to 
Vallomhrosa  and  spend  a  month  there  and  finish 
my  book  is  splendid.  The  very  name  "Vallom- 
hrosa" has  no  end  of  charm.  It  sounds  like 
shadows  and  I  can  imagine  thje  deep  wooded  dis- 
tances, dark,  cool  and  remote. 

I  have  always  wanted  to  see  Italy  in  mid-sum- 
mer and  to  know  the  country  around  Florence, 
of  which  there  are  beautiful  descriptions  in  the 
"Lys  Rouge." 

Do  you  think  you  could  get  me  a  nice  little  suite 
of  rooms  in  an  inexpensive  hotel?  You  must  be 
sure  that  there  is  a  balcony  with  a  view  of  Flor- 
ence from  it.  I  shall  bring  my  secretary  and  my 
maid,  and  finish  "Mary  Moreland,"  and  begin 
my  new  novel,  "Carmichel's  Past."  It  will  be  too 
much  fun  for  words  to  work  in  that  silence,  and 
then  have  some  long  walks  with  you  and  see  the 
baby.  If  she  is  anything  like  her  photograph,  she 
is  a  darling. 

II 


i'.ii".  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

It  will  be  amusing  to  see  the  Italian  life.  I 
long  to  come.  Let  me  know  what  the  possibili- 
ties are. 

Yours  as  ever, 

M. 

To  Miss  Mabel  McGinnis,  Rome. 

4,  Place  du  Palais  Bourbon,  Paris, 
July  2oth,  1914. 

Dear  Mabel, 

I  shall  see  you,  I  hope,  for  I  am  coming  to 
Italy.  I  want  to  go  to  Vallombrosa  for  the  month 
of  August  and  see  something  of  Margaret^s  little 
child  and  Gaetano.  After  Vallombrosa  (and  you 
may  even  care  to  come  there,  too) ,  we'll  do  some- 
thing together. 

Mabel,  I've  only  been  home  here  in  Paris  a 
short  while,  and  yet  I  am  keen  to  get  away.  My 
little  house  is  settled  and  charming,  and  yet  in  it 
I  have  the  most  curious  spirit  of  unrest.  Mabel, 
I  don't  know  what  it  Is,  but  there  seems  a  menace 
over  everything.  What  can  it  mean?  In  all  my 
life  I  have  never  had  such  a  strange,  strained, 
tense  feeling.  Sometimes  at  night  I  can't  sleep 
and  on  several  occasions  I've  gotten  up  and 
thrown  open  my  shutters  and  looked  out  over  the 
familiar  little  Place,  over  the  roofs,  to  the  sky; 
and  the  most  curious  sense  of  peril  seems  to  brood 
over  everything  in  sight.  What  can  it  mean? 
There  have  been  times  when  I  could  hardly  catch 
my  breath  for  the  oppression  on  my  heart. 

Of  course  it's  purely  physical.  You  would 
think  that  I  should  feel  more  at  peace  in  my  own 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  13 

home;  but  I  want  to  get  away.     I  am  glad  I  am 
going  to  Italy.    I  long  to  go. 

Yours  as  ever, 

M. 

To  G,  C,  Vallomhrosa, 

Paris,  July  25th,  1914. 

My  dear  Gaetano, 

You  can't  think  with  what  joy  I  look  forward 
to  Italy.  The  strange  spirit  of  unrest  here  is  now 
taking  a  more  definite  form.  On  every  one's  lips 
is  the  question:     *'Will  there  be  war?" 

Of  course,  my  point  of  view  is  as  little  interest- 
ing as  possible,  but  I  think  there  will  be.  Hugues 
Le  Roux,  however,  for  whose  opinion  I  have  the 
greatest  respect,  laughed  at  me  when  I  said  so. 
I  fancy  I  am  too  easily  alarmed. 

"Rassurez-vous,"  he  said  to  me  yesterday;  "et 
partez  en  paix.  Enjoy  Italy  to  the  full.  There 
will  not  be  any  war,  my  dear." 

Of  course,  if  there  should  be  war,  it  wouldn't 
last  long — not  in  the  twentieth  century;  and  no 
one  wants  it.  There  would  be,  perhaps,  a  few 
skirmishes  on  the  frontiers,  and  then  everything 
would  be  arranged  diplomatically. 

So  look  out  for  us  next  week.    We'll  be  along. 

As  ever, 

M. 

To  Mr,  Ca^iati,  Vallomhrosa. 

Paris,  July  30th,  19 14. 

My  dear  Gaetano, 

All  the  pretty  things  I've  had  made  to  wear  at 
Vallombrosa,  all  the  pretty  things  I've  had  made 


14  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

to  bring  down  for  the  baby,  will  lie  in  trunks 
or  hang  unused.  We're  not  coming  down  to  Italy, 
my  dear  friend. 

This  win  be  a  disappointment  to  you.  It  Is  a 
great  one  to  me.  But,  as  I  telegraphed  you,  we're 
not  coming. 

This  afternoon,  I  had  all  my  trunks  on  the 
omnibus.  I  was  just  getting  In  with  my  dressing 
case,  when  I  thought  I'd  go  over  and  take  a  last 
farewell  of  Bessie — see  her  once  more  before  I 
went  away.  As  I  went  In,  I  found  Robert  Le 
Roux  having  tea  with  her.  Just  as  soon  as  I  came 
In,  he  got  up  quickly  and  came  over  and  took  my 
hand  and  said: 

*'Ma  chere  amie,  vous  ne  pouvez  pas  partir 
pourl'Itallel" 

"But,  Robert,  why  not?" 

"Vous  ne  pouvez  pas  partir." 

"But  all  my  trunks  are  on  the  omnibus,  and  I've 
got  my  tickets !    We're  just  ready  to  go !" 

^'Ne  partez  pas/* 

His  tone  was  so  serious  that,  even  as  I  spoke, 
I  felt  a  whole  wave  of  apprehension  rush  over 
me;  and  just  In  that  moment  It  seemed  as  though 
this  menace  that  I'd  felt  was  beginning  to  take 
form. 

"You  mean "  I  began. 

"Vous  aurez  peut-etre  des  ennuis,"  he  said,  "If 
you  wanted  to  come  back  hurriedly  to  your 
mother." 

"Robert,"  I  said,  "you  really  mean  to  say  that 
you  think  it's  so  serious?" 


ROBERT  HUGUES  LE  ROUX 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  15 

I  shall  never  forget  the  face  of  that  Frenchman 
as  he  answered  me,  never! 

''Ma  chere,  Marie,  c^est  la  Guerre/' 
***** 

My  dear  Gaetano,  the  trees  of  Vallombrosa 
will  shed  their  beautiful  leaves  and  I  shall  not  see 
them  fall. 

God  alone  knows  whether  what  Le  Roux  fears 
win  come  true.    Heavens,  what  will  It  mean  I 

To-night,  as  I  sit  here  writing  to  you,  In  my 
little  study  high  above  this  beautiful  and  beloved 
Paris,  I  can  only  hear  that  one  sentence  ringing 
Its  sinister  and  tragic  message  through  my  heart 
and  brain : 

''Cest  la  Guerre/' 

M. 


To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz,  New  York. 

Cavendish  Hotel,  London,  August  4th,  1914. 

My  dear  Violet, 

My  first  cable  from  Paris  gave  you  Parr's  Bank 
as  my  address  In  London.  .  .  .  That  was  last 
week,  when  people  were  fairly  fighting  for  funds 
in  Paris.  I  have  had  no  letters  from  you  since  the 
war  cloud  rose,  but  I  am  sure  that  you  have  tried 
to  reach  me,  and  that  you  are  all  of  you  Ignorant 
of  the  money  crisis  here.  .  .  . 

Molly  would  not  come  across  the  Channel  with 
me,  but  said  she  preferred  returning  to  Deauvllle. 
A  mere  woman,  with  a  very  limited  sum  of  money, 
I  left  Paris  successfully,  taking  my  secretary,  three 


1 6  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

servants,  and  all  my  luggage  and  all  Mother's 
luggage,  and  moving  Mother — no  joke — to  Lon- 
don. Two  hours  after  I  left,  there  were  thou- 
sands fighting  for  entrance  at  the  Gare  du  Nord, 
and  thousands  of  pieces  of  luggage  were  left  to 
wait  or  take  what  fate  befell  them  in  the  station. 
I  feel  rather  more  shamed  than  anything  else  to 
have  been  so  successful  when  millionaires  and  men 
all  over  the  country  have  not  been  able  to  get  out 
of  France  yet. 

/  did  not  want  to  get  out.  It  has  taken  me 
three  days  to  write  this  letter  and  I  don't  like  even 
to  speak  of  what  I  have  been  through.  It  has  not 
been  material  hardship,  but  moral  and  mental  and 
spiritual,  to  the  extent  of  the  greatest  strain  possi- 
ble. ...  I  put  off  going  as  long  as  I  could,  and 
was  just  about  to  go  in  to  dinner  with  Bessie  and 
Robert  Le  Roux  when  Molly  called  me  up  on  the 
telephone  and  said  she  had  arrived  from  Deau- 
ville  to  say  good-bye  to  her  brother,  who  was 
going  through  to  Switzerland  in  his  car  to  fetch 
his  children  from  St.  Moritz.  It  was  eight  o'clock 
at  night.  I  found  Molly  at  the  Rhin  and  we 
talked  about  the  situation,  which  was  then  per- 
fectly calm  and  in  no  wise  decisive ;  and  I  begged 
her  to  come  to  London  with  me  next  day.  ...  I 
sat  with  her  In  the  dear  old  Rhin  till  midnight, 
then  walked  quietly  home,  at  half-past  twelve, 
through  the  Tuileries,  under  the  moonlight.  The 
streets  were  not  in  the  least  excited.  You  see,  the 
troops  had  not  even  been  mobilised.  Nothing  was 
decisive — only  the  horrible,  horrible  strain  In  the 
air.     When  I  got  to  the  Quai  d'Orsay  Hotel,  I 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  17 

wanted  awfully  to  speak  to  Le  Roux,  and  I  called 
him  downstairs.  He  was  very  agitated  and  said 
that  Jaures  had  just  been  assassinated  on  the 
boulevard  and  that  war  was  inevitable.  I  did  not 
tell  him  my  project  to  leave,  but  went  home  to  my 
house.  ...  It  was  so  tranquil  and  lovely — every- 
thing in  such  beautiful  order  and  so  sweet.  I  won- 
dered whether  I  had  better  try  to  stock  the  place 
with  provisions  the  following  day  and  remain ;  but 
I  then  decided  that  it  would  be  difficult  for  Mother 
to  go  about  in.  Paris,  and  that  as  I  could  not  pro- 
tect her,  I  had  no  right  to  consider  anything  but 
her  safety. 

It's  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  I  dtd  not  close 
my  eyes,  and  I  thought  out  the  best  route  to  go 
quietly  to  London.  At  four  o'clock  In  the  morning 
I  called  up  the  Gare  du  Nord,  and  just  as  soon  as 
the  telephonist  told  me  that  they  had  not  been 
able  to  talk  with  them  all  night  long,  I  knew  that 
Newhaven  would  be  best.  I  ordered  an  omnibus 
from  the  Gare  St.  Lazare,  then  through  the  tele- 
phone I  told  Mother's  companion  to  prepare  to 
leave  the  house  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
with  everything  she  could  take — not  because  I 
feared  a  siege,  but  because  I  thought  I  should 
probably  never  be  able  to  bring  Mother  back  to 
Paris. 

I  did  not  wake  my  own  servants  till  five;  then 
I  called  them  downstairs  and  after  once  telling 
them  what  I  wanted,  I  knew  that  I  should  have 
no  further  need  to  think  what  should  be  done,  for 
they  were  so  capable  and  so  perfect.  I  told  them 
I  wanted  to  take  as  much  as  I  could  with  me  and 


1 8  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

to  leave  at  eight.  Meanwhile,  Webb  had  already 
packed  all  my  personal  things  for  Italy,  where — 
as  you  know — I  was  to  have  gone  two  days  earlier. 
I  gave  that  up  because  of  the  uncertainty  of  being 
able  to  return.  Then  I  called  up  my  secretary  at 
her  hotel  and  told  her  to  be  ready  as  well.  .  .  . 
When  the  station  omnibus  came,  It  refused  to  take 
my  luggage.  Just  then,  I  saw  a  wine  delivery- 
truck  going  up  the  Rue  de  Bourgogne,  and  I 
stopped  the  man  and  offered  him  twenty  francs 
to  take  all  my  things  to  the  station.  He  accepted. 
My  secretary  went  up  to  fetch  Mother,  and  my 
maid  and  the  manservant  went  to  the  station  with 
the  luggage.  I  took  the  man  on  account  of 
Mother,  not  knowing  whether  she  might  be  taken 
ill  on  the  way,  and  meaning  to  send  him  back  from 
Newhaven,  as  he  Is  a  Frenchman  and  of  course  I 
had  no  Intention  of  keeping  him.  My  little  cook 
Rose,  whom  you  remember,  so  sweet  and  pretty, 
cried  and  begged  me  to  take  her  with  me.  Then 
I  paid  no  more  attention  to  my  mobilised  army, 
but  went  over  to  see  Molly  again  and  we  went  to 
the  American  Express  to  book  passages  on  the 
France  for  her  return  to  America.  They  had  to 
pay  frs.  12,000  for  their  accommodation,  and 
there  was  a  perfect  fight  and  mob  In  the  shipping 
office.  As  my  train  left  at  ten,  you  will  see  that 
I  hadn't  much  time.  Telling  Molly  that  If  I  could 
possibly  do  so  and  feel  It  safe,  I  would  let  Mother 
go  on  with  her  escort  and  come  back  to  her  and 
take  a  later  train,  I  left  her.  At  the  train,  I  found 
everything  most  perfectly  put  through.  It  only 
looked  like  an  ordinary  August  exodus — rather 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  19 

crowded  and  rushed,  but  no  frightful  excitement. 
Mother  was  sitting  there  enthroned,  and  after  sit- 
ting by  her  side  and  realising  the  efficiency  of 
every  one  around  her  and  that  all  would  go  well, 
I  left  her  and  went  back  to  Molly  and  Bessie. 
When  I  got  outside  the  station,  there  was  the 
carriage  waiting  for  me  and  by  the  wheel  stood 
Bessie,  who  had  come  to  see  me  off.  We  went 
together  back  to  the  American  Express  and  found 
Molly,  and  we  stayed  together  for  a  little  time 
and  then  took  Molly  to  her  train  at  one  o'clock, 
when  she  made  a  very  passable  sortie  with  her 
maid  and  all  her  luggage.  I  mention  these  details 
because  so  soon  afterwards  the  aspect  was 
changed.  If  we  had  not  gone  when  we  did,  prob- 
ably I  and  my  party  could  not  have  gone  at  all — 
certainly  not  with  any  belongings — and  probably 
Mother  would  have  collapsed,  as  people  were 
trampled  on  later.  ...  I  went  away  with  no  per- 
sonal elan  whatever.  ...  I  wanted  to  stay  in  the 
place  I  love  the  best  in  the  world.  .  .  .  All  the 
way  to  Dieppe  I  was  alone  in  the  carriage — just 
fancy ! — and  on  the  next  train  they  were  hanging 
on  to  the  carriages!  When  I  reached  Dieppe, 
they  told  me  that  no  boat  would  go  out  for  days 
and  I  began  to  drink  in  the  fact  that  probably  I 
should  not  be  able  to  get  across  the  Channel  to 
Mother,  who  had  gone  on  serenely.  I  had  just 
decided  to  take  the  train  back  to  Paris  when  the 
counter-news  came  that  the  boat  would  run  at  mid- 
night. ...  I  don't  think  I  had  anything  to  eat 
for  two  days.  (I  can't  remember  a  meal  at  all.) 
I  did  eat  something  then  and  took  a  bath  and 


20  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

rested,  going  on  board  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  then  the  rush  had  begun.  Three  boats 
went  out  that  night  and  not  one  article  of  luggage 
came  through  from  Paris! 

When  I  got  here,  I  found  the  family  comfort- 
ably installed.  ...  I  have  taken  a  small  house 
just  outside  London  for  Mother,  and  she  goes 
there  to-day  with  her  companion.  .  .  . 

The  aspect  of  London  is  thrilling.  The  city  is 
full  of  manifestants  all  the  time — processions  of 
them  going  through  the  streets  cheering  for 
France  and  going  down  to  Buckingham  Palace.  I 
do  not  feel  that  any  one  who  is  not  closely  in  touch 
with  the  political  question  can  judge  of  England's 
tardy  decision,  because  they  must  be  preparing  for 
some  coup,  and  perhaps  the  very  hesitation  will  be 
for  France's  ultimate  benefit.  But  the  strain  beg- 
gars description  and  if  felt  here  like  this,  so  that 
we  can  almost  feel  the  tension  snap,  what  must  it 
be  in  Paris?  Every  one  has  been  enthusiastic  here 
over  the  quiet  dignity  of  the  French  and  the  way 
they  have  borne  this  wait.  I  personally  feel  most 
secure  in  the  fact  that  France  is  going  to  be  vic- 
torious.    It  couldn't  be  otherwise.  .  .  . 

I  hope  that  the  American  enthusiasm  is  strong 
for  the  country  that  stood  by  it  in  the  War  of 
Independence.  .  .   . 

There  have  been  no  mails  through  from  France 
to-day.  .  .  . 

The  fact  that  England  is  a  partial  ally  is  a  com- 
fort, but  it  is  hard  enough  to  be  here  as  I  am,  even 
in  these  circumstances.  .  .  . 

My  plan  is  to  return  to  Paris,  if  I  can  get 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  21 

through,  once  I  am  convinced  of  Mother^s  safety 
here.  .  .  . 


To  Mr.  Gaetano  Cagiati,  Rome, 

London,  August  7th,  1914. 

Dear  Gaetano, 

...  I  am  full  of  enthusiasm  over  the  attitude 
of  the  countries  I  love — France,  where  my  heart 
is  so  deeply,  and,  as  you  know,  my  home  for 
twenty-five  years;  Belgium,  where  my  cousins  are 
and  whose  ancestry  is  close  to  mine — for  I  am 
Dutch  and  French;  and  now  Italy;  holding  out 
against  this  brutal  tyranny,  this  barbaric  disgust- 
ing materialism.  It  would  have  been  a  cruel  blow 
to  me  if  Italy  had  turned  against  France — just  one 
blow  more !  How  glad  I  am  that  she  did  not  I  I 
foresee  the  fact  that  Italy  will  have  to  fight  and 
that  perhaps  they  will  call  upon  older  men  to  go 
to  service.  .  .  .  And  then  England,  interesting  in 
the  extreme  I  I  am  so  grateful  not  to  be  in  an 
unfriendly  country.   .  .  . 

What  a  different  August  to  the  one  we 
planned!  .  .  . 

To  Bessie  van  Forst,  Paris, 

Aug.   14th,  1914. 

...  We  hear  all  sorts  of  rumours.  Would 
you  tell  me  if  they  are  correct?  That  the  Champs 
Elysees  is  a  vast  camp  for  soldiers,  that  people  are 
held  up  by  sentries  in  the  streets  at  the  point  of 
the  bayonet;  that  nobody  goes  out  after  eight  at 


22  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

night,  and  that  Paris  is  not  lighted?  A  friend  of 
M.'s  who  has  just  arrived  took  thirty-six  hours  to 
come.  .  .  . 

We  understand  that  there  are  50,000  English 
in  Amiens  and  50,000  in  Brussels.  The  Terri- 
torials fill  the  streets  and  are  camping  in  some  of 
the  big  parks.  .  .  . 

I  also  hear  that  there  is  no  milk  in  Paris.  Tell 
me  everything.  .  .  . 

Molly  came  in  at  2  o'clock  to-day.  .  .  .  She 
says  that  their  life  at  Deauville  had  become  im- 
possible. They  had  to  get  a  fresh  permis  de 
sejour  every  day — all  of  them.  .   .  . 

We  are  kept  in  complete  darkness  regarding  the 
movement  of  troops.  No  one  in  England  knows 
where  the  soldiers  are. 

To  Mr.  Cagiati,  Rome. 

Aug.  14th,  1914. 

My  dear  Gaetano, 

.  .  .  How  far  away  the  peaceful  days  of  autre- 
fois seem,  and  how  impossible  the  evening  walks 
across  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  the  gardens 
of  the  Tuileries  I  They  tell  me  no  one  is  allowed 
abroad  in  Paris  after  dark,  but  I  am  ignorant  of 
the  state  of  the  city  beyond  what  you  read  in 
Bessie's  letters.  .  .  . 

We  do  not  know  how  safe  England  is.  How 
can  we  know,  or  what  the  food  problem  will  be? 
although  every  one  is  optimistic  and  the  Govern- 
ment is  acting  magnificently  all  along  the  line. 

The  state  of  affairs  seems  to  have  awakened  the 
verse-writing  spirit  and  there  have  been  several 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  23 

beautiful  poems  in  the  papers.  And  I  think  the 
editorials  of  the  papers  themselves  are  stunning. 
I  have  sent  you  some  clippings.  .  .  . 

For  the  past  ten  days  we  have  been  working  Rve 
hours  a  day,  taking  the  Red  Cross  lectures.  We 
were  supposed  to  do  in  twelve  consecutive  lessons 
what,  as  a  rule,  it  takes  twelve  weeks  to  perform. 
The  class  looked  for  twenty  members  and  two 
thousand  came!  It  is  taught  by  the  most  cele- 
brated Red  Cross  man  in  Europe — Dr.  Cantlie, 
the  writer  of  the  manuals — and  it  was  an  extraor- 
dinary piece  of  luck  to  come  under  his  instruction. 
The  work  is  fascinating  and  it  has  served  to  fill 
In  these  dreary  days  of  strain,  loneliness  and  in- 
decision. I  took  the  first  examination  yesterday, 
but  could  not  hope  to  pass  and  am  perfectly  pre- 
pared to  fail  and  to  begin  again  next  week.  The 
time  was  too  short.  But  I  am  going  to  do  It  to 
the  finish.  .  .  .  There  were  funny  sides  to  it — 
the  crowds  of  English  spinsters  who  rushed  to  the 
fore,  and  the  little  messenger  boys  who  were  haled 
In  from  the  streets  to  be  bandaged.  But  when 
you  think  that  only  eight  hours'  journey  from  us 
four  million  men  are  on  the  battlefield,  it  will  not 
be  astonishing  If  many  hands  are  needed,  and  If 
all  the  hands  are  not  expert,  they  will  be  better 
than  nothing.  There  has  never  been  such  a  hor- 
rible condition  of  affairs  In  the  history  of  the 
world,  and  you,  so  far  away,  quiet  and  protected, 
cannot  imagine  what  the  mental  strain  is  of  wait- 
ing for  the  news.  It  is  a  moment  of  big  issues 
and  I  think  that  souls  will  be  bigger  for  the  times. 
Certainly  the  attitude  of  England,  all  the  way 


24  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

down  the  file,  has  been  superb.  And  as  for  Ger« 
many,  I  don't  know  what  you've  heard,  but  its 
barbaric  atrocities  have  disgusted  and  horrified 
the  very  coldest  of  judges.  Their  last  deed  was 
to  put  women  and  children  before  the  ranks  of 
soldiers,  so  that  the  French  would  not  fire  upon 
them. 

...  It  takes  36  hours  to  get  back  to  Paris,  and 
lines  of  red  tape,  and  passports,  and  all  sorts  of 
formalities;  and  now  that  I  have  no  servants  I 
don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  ...  It  is  lonely  here 
and  it  will  be  lonely  there. 

Yours,  etc., 
M. 

To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York, 

London,  August  i8th,  19 14. 

My  dear  Belle, 

It  is  hard  to  believe  that  anything  so  beautiful 
and  so  unspoilt  as  London  can  exist  in  this  twen- 
tieth century.  I  have  never  been  here  so  long  at 
one  time.  Think  of  that!  The  streets  are  full 
of  picturesque  sights.  The  other  night  on  Picca- 
dilly, I  saw  a  poor  stone-blind  man  with  his  little 
dog,  tapping  his  way  along  the  pavement  with  his 
stick.  A  newsvendor  stopped  to  give  him  viva- 
voce  the  last  war  news:  I  heard  him  whisper  it 
in  the  poor  fellow's  ear.  .  .  . 

I  have  never  realised  before  how  lovely  the 
houses  are.  Town  houses  of  all  possible  colours 
— white  as  snow,  their  window-boxes  full  of  pale 
pink  geraniums ;  a  pea-green  house  with  red  doors. 
None  of  them  over  three  stories  high  in  any  of 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  25 

these  streets.  And  of  all  the  softest  shades  and 
tones. 

Then  there's  the  brown  cloud  of  soldiers, 
driven  here  and  there  through  the  streets — the 
Territorials  in  their  dust-coloured  uniforms  flow- 
ing in  from  the  country-side  everywhere — pictur- 
esque and  ominous.  These  forces  are  to  be  ex- 
changed for  the  troops  from  India,  when  they 
arrive.  The  military  precision,  the  quiet  strength 
with  which  all  these  operations  have  been  carried 
out,  the  secrecy,  and  the  patience  of  the  people, 
have  been  very  impressive.  .  .  . 

When  you  receive  this  letter,  you  will  probably 
know  more  than  I  know  now.  Perhaps  some 
terrible  continental  disaster  will  have  saddened 
this  England  that  now  so  gallantly  and  in  such 
a  dignified  way  sends  its  brotherly  response  to 
France  and  Belgium. 

.  .  .  This  morning  I  went  to  the  hospital  and 
worked  with  the  Red  Cross  people  until  half- 
past  one.  Then  luncheon.  Then  a  lecture  from 
two  till  five.  ... 

You  are  following  the  course  of  this  war  and 
I  need  not  refer  to  any  of  the  details.  Our  per- 
sonal safety  is  your  chief  interest.  It  seems  as- 
sured. German  successes  would  change  our  feel- 
ings, of  course.  Aeroplanes  might  drop  their 
bombs  upon  us.  But  we  only  think  of  victory. 
The  German  spy  business  here  is  a  vital  ques- 
tion, and  they  say  that  the  proprietor  of  the  As- 
toria in  Paris  was  shot  and  the  hotel  closed.  .  .  . 


26  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

I  am  working  for  my  Red  Cross  examinations 
and  enjoying  the  work  tremendously.  .  .  . 

Mother  is  in  a  little  house  .  .  .  surrounded  by 
a  perfectly  beautiful  garden,  in  an  ideal  coun- 
try village.  I  went  out  there  on  Sunday  and 
found  her  sitting  by  the  garden  gate,  with  two 
wash  pitchers  full  of  cold  tea,  and  a  tray  of 
sandwiches,  giving  them  out  to  the  soldiers.  Ten 
thousand  poor  fellows  passed  her  door  that  day, 
and  she  was  enjoying  the  role  of  Lady  Bountiful 
very  much  indeed. 


F.  B.  Van  Vorst,  Hackensack. 

London,  August  22nd,  19 14. 

My  dear  Frederick, 

I  have  asked  one  or  two  of  my  friends  to  mail 
you  letters  which  may  interest  you  and  Mary.  .  .  . 

Personal  friends  of  ours — ^young  girls  and  an 
older  lady — have  just  come  through  from  Ger- 
many with  the  greatest  difficulty.  The  young 
ladies  were  stripped  by  German  officers,  who  in- 
sulted them,  and  the  mother  was  put  in  prison. 
They  are  going  to  see  President  Wilson  and  make 
a  public  case  of  it.  All  that  has  happened  has 
not  even  been  told  us. 

I  had  a  letter  to-day  from  Margaret  Goblet 
d'Alviella  in  Brussels,  to  whom  I  wrote.  Felix 
is  a  Municipal  Councillor.  Far  away  as  you  are 
in  your  peaceful  and  normal  U.  S.  A.,  you  can't 
take  in  what  the  strain  is,  or,  on  the  other  hand, 
what  the  control  has  been  among  the  Anglo- 
Saxons — and  the  Latins  too.    We  over  here  hope 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  27 

that  the  pulse  of  America  is  not  too  tightly  com- 
pressed by  the  thumbs  of  the  Wall  Street  clique. 
I  remember  that  you  told  me  some  time  ago  that, 
no  one  dreams  how  America  is  influenced  by  that 
colossally  rich  Hebraic  band. 

The  Kaiser  is  a  bloodthirsty  lunatic  and  his 
whole  country  is  his  machine,  trained  to  execute 
blindly  his  commands.  Children  have  been 
thrown  on  the  flames  of  burning  houses.  Women 
with  child  have  been  slaughtered  before  the  eyes 
of  the  inhabitants. 

.  .  .  Well,  if  you  live  for  money,  you  get  it; 
and  if  you  live  for  Empire,  you  get  St.  Helena, 
and  I  hope  William  II.  will  get  it  neck  and  crop. 

I  have  finished  my  Red  Cross  examinations,  all 
but  one.  .  .  . 

It  has  been  very  interesting  here  and  very  pic- 
turesque— troops  going  to  the  war,  and  the  leave- 
takings;  and  if  one  can  forget  what  is  transpir- 
ing across  the  Channel,  there  is  a  certain  pleas- 
urable excitement  in  being  on  the  spot.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  You  will  hear  enough  of  everything  that 
is  going  on,  without  my  writing  you;  and  please 
put  up  your  prayers  for  the  overthrow  of  the  most 
disgusting  lot  of  human  beings  that  ever  guzzled 
and  raped  and  went  through  the  world  with  sword 
and  fire.  .  .  . 

Letter  to  the  ''New  York  Sun/' 
Sir, 

If  the  millions  of  Germans  in  our  country  have 
become  Americanised  and  citizens  of  the  United 


28  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

States  in  sincerity,  It  Is  time  for  them  to  adopt 
and  reflect  the  attitude  of  Its  liberty-loving  and 
civilised  people.  If  they  are  not  sincere  citizens, 
then  they  should  return  to  fight  for  their  country. 
They  can  only,  given  the  fact  that  they  are  Ameri- 
can citizens,  loyally  echo  the  opinions  of  the  New 
York  Press  on  the  barbarous  methods  of  the  Kai- 
ser's modern  warfare.  An  Indication  of  this  mo- 
dus operandi  was  given  In  his  orders  to  his  troops 
In  China  in  1900.  "When  you  meet  the  foe,  you 
win  defeat  him.  No  quarter  will  be  given,  no 
prisoners  taken.  Let  all  who  fall  Into  your  hands 
be  at  your  mercy.  Gain  a  reputation  like  the 
Huns  under  Attila."  There  Is  no  reason  to  sup- 
pose that  his  point  of  view  has  changed.  Rape, 
the  murder  of  defenceless  women  and  children, 
the  levelling  of  homes,  indignities  Inflicted  not 
only  upon  the  people  with  whom  he  Is  at  war, 
but  upon  citizens  of  neutral  and  supposedly  friend- 
ly countries,  have  marked  the  passing  of  the 
Kaiser's  soldiers  from  Germany  to  the  little  city 
they  have  Ingloriously  overwhelmed. 

This  war,  from  the  beginning,  stultified  and 
astonished  the  people  of  the  twentieth  century. 
It  was  some  time  before  It  could  be  believed;  and 
now  the  means  of  this  warfare  must  be  abhor- 
rent to  every  decent-minded  American. 

The  facts  presented  to  us,  so  close  to  the  scene 
of  war,  are  not  hearsay  evidence,  but  have  been 
brought  to  us  in  London  by  weeping  fugitives 
and  by  those  who  have  suflfered  personal  abuse, 
outrage,  and  Insult.  American  women  of  the 
highest  class  have  been  stripped  and  Insulted; 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  29 

ladles  have  been  put  In  prison;  and  half  that 
has  been  endured  by  defenceless  women — British, 
French,  and  Russian  subjects — will  never  be 
known. 

This  message  Is  sent  to  the  New  York  Sun  from 
an  American  citizen. 

Let  me  revert,  In  closing,  to  the  opening  of  my 
letter.  All  German-Americans  who  have  made 
their  choice  of  a  new  nationality  and  a  new 
fatherland,  should,  Instead  of  endeavouring  to 
palliate  the  Kaiser's  mode  of  warfare,  denounce 
It  with  the  people  of  the  United  States. 


To  Mrs.  John  Van  Vorst,  Paris. 

London,  August  27th,  1914. 

Dear  Bessie, 

Please  try,  before  the  Channel  Is  closed,  to 
send  me  over  all  the  news  you  can.  Think  what 
It  will  be,  cut  off  from  France  I  Or  rather,  don't 
think;  because  what's  the  use? 

...  I  still  have  three  more  Red  Cross  lec- 
tures before  getting  the  final  certificate.  The  in- 
struction has  been  extremely  Interesting  and  I 
have  enjoyed  the  study.  You  would  have  laughed 
at  the  little  messenger  boys  upon  the  operating 
tables,  and  all  the  old  maids  bandaging  their 
legs  and  arms.  I  am  too  Parisian  not  to  see  the 
humour  of  it.  They  tell  me  at  the  head  office  that 
England  will  be  made  one  vast  hospital  and  that 
the  Red  Cross  has  orders  to  receive  all  the  Con- 
tinental wounded.     Can  this  be  possible?    If  so, 


30  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

and  I  remain  here,  even  my  inefficiency  may  be 
of  some  use.  .  .  . 

Of  course,  this  city  is  full  of  interest,  if  only 
one's  mind  could  leave  the  horrors,  and  the  strain 
could,   for  a  little  while,  be  loosened. 

As  for  the  country  about  Mother's  house,  it  is 
divine.  You  never  saw  such  fields,  and  the  graz- 
ing sheep,  and  the  tiny  little  town  with  its  un- 
believably picturesque  houses;  and  Mother  sits 
in  a  rough-and-tumble  old  garden,  which  for  some 
reason  or  other  is  not  even  dreai*y;  and  the  odour 
of  the  hay  and  the  fields  and  the  flocks  is  in- 
toxicatlngly  sweet,  and  the  view  charming;  and 
the  afternoons  that  I  have  sat  there  .  .  .  have 
been  peculiarly  satisfying  and  peaceful.  I  have 
enjoyed  every  moment  of  them.  .  .  . 

You  can't  think  what  primitive  goings-on  there 
are  right  here  in  Mayfair,  nor  can  you  believe 
that  they  take  place  in  the  twentieth  century.  For 
instance,  the  barrel  organ,  of  course,  and  Indi- 
vidual women  and  men  singing  solos  of  all  kinds ; 
a  man  playing  mlhtary  tunes  on  a  pipe,  particular- 
ly pathetic  when  he  plays  *'The  Flowers  o'  the 
Forest  are  all  wi'ed  awa'."  And  the  other  day, 
the  oldest,  oldest-fashioned  "Punch  and  Judy"! 
It  must  have  dated  from  long  before  Dickens' 
time.  Then  a  woman  with  a  cart  full  of  parrots 
and  birds,  and  a  monkey  and  kittens  for  sale. 
And  as  for  the  signs  on  some  of  the  buildings, 
they  cause  a  smile  even  in  these  thoughtful  days. 
*'Self-contained  maisonnette,"  for  instance — If 
you  can  tell  me  what  that  means!  If  a  Zeppelin 
drops  a  bomb  here,  even  the  British  "malson- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  31 

nette"  will  not  be  self-contained  I  Another  sign 
is  a  very  common  one :  "You  may  telephone  here, 
if  so  desired."  Think  of  the  politeness  of  that 
to  a  busy  public  I  Then  another:  **Trains  stop 
here  if  requested."  And  the  names  of  some  of 
the  little  inns,  as  you  pass  them  beyond  Elstree: 
"The  Country  Lad,"  for  Instance,  in  pink  stucco, 
one  storey  high,  with  bright  green  blinds,  and 
the  August  fields  around  It;  and  all  along  up  the 
hill,  the  endless  files  of  dusty  soldiers  tramping 
away,  past  the  farm  lad  and  the  country  boy 
and  the  harvests.  .  .  . 

Aug.  27th,  1914. 

...  I  was  deeply  interested  In  your  views 
about  the  theatre  of  war.  I  think  that  Slav 
power  could  not  be  more  hideous  than  the  Ger- 
man power.  No  atrocities,  excepting  those  of  the 
Dark  Age's,  have  equalled  the  barbarism  of  the 
Germans  to  their  fellow-creatures.  And  I  also 
think  that  Germany  Is  more  materialistic  than 
Russia,  and  that  is  the  secret  of  it  all.  .  .  . 


To  Mrs.  F.  B.  Van  Vorst,  New  York, 

Sept.  19th,  1 9 14. 

My  dear  Mary, 

It  is  amusing  to  read  that  the  German  Em- 
peror says  that  if  the  extinction  of  the  German 
Empire  is  threatened,  he  will  arm  every  child  and 
cat  and  dog  In  the  kingdom  for  revenge.  He  has 
already,  apparently,  armed  every  maniac  and  van- 
dal, every  criminal  and  drunkard,  and  set  them 


32  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

loose  upon  the  highest  civilisation  that  we  know. 

In  the  German  appeal  for  sympathy  to  the 
United  States,  let  Germany  not  forget  the  role 
that  women  play  In  our  country.  There  is  no 
country  In  the  world  where  their  voice  is  clearer 
and  where  their  force  Is  greater.  The  atrocities 
practised  upon  women  by  the  Germans  In  Bel- 
gium and  in  France  call  for  a  reckoning  that  Ger- 
many must  pay  until  its  last  breath,  and  the 
women  of  our  country  will  not  be  slow  to  display 
their  attitude  of  mind  towards  German  barbarism. 

France  knew  the  horrors  of  German  Invasion 
in  1870,  but  hoped  for  better  things  after  the 
supposed  civilising  of  forty  years.  Yet  graver 
and  more  frightful  horrors  than  inspired  Guy 
de  Maupassant  to  write  of  Mademoiselle  FIfi  in 
his  immortal  story  have  befallen  the  women  of 
France,  as  well  as  the  women  of  Belgium. 

Germany  must  make  no  sentimental  appeal 
to  the  people  of  the  United  States.  We  are 
bidden  to  remain  neutral  by  our  Government; 
our  hearts  and  souls  cannot  be  this.  Before  a 
political  situation,  diplomacy  might  keep  us  si- 
lent; but  before  rape  and  brutality  such  as  the 
savage  races  employed;  before  dishonour,  arson 
and  cowardice,  before  insult  to  priests,  before 
murder  of  women,  before  fiendish  attacks  upon 
those  who  minister  to  the  sick,  we  are  neither 
neutral  nor  silent.  Nor  will  we  ever  be,  and 
Germany  may  as  well  know  it  thoroughly. 

I  have  been  able  to  get  letters  carried  by  hand 
to  Bessie,  even  at  the  worst  moments — and  the 
moments  have  been  bad,  I  assure  you  I     At  one 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  33 

time  we  thought  hourly  that  those  dreadful  devils 
would  enter  our  beloved  Paris.  Nor  are  we  sure 
yet  that  all  is  well.     How  can  we  be?  .  .  . 

There  are  interesting  things  besides  the  hor- 
rors, of  course,  and  here  in  England  we  have  only 
seen  that  side.  London  has  been  calm  and  peace- 
ful, except  for  the  exodus  of  her  soldiers;  and 
the  weather,  with  the  exception  of  one  day,  has 
been  divine,  so  that  it  is  hard  to  realise  all  that 
is  going  on  about  us. 

You  must  not  think  of  me  as  nursing  wounded 
soldiers,  for  I  have  done  nothing  at  all  but  hang 
around  in  a  state  of  horrible  desuetude,  wishing 
myself  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  and  failing 
probably  to  appreciate  just  how  thrilling  it  is  on 
Piccadilly.  I  believe  I  have  now  secured  at  least 
the  first  diploma  of  the  Red  Cross.  .  .  . 

Just  now  we  are  waiting  for  the  outcome  of 
the  battle  of  the  Aisne  and  our  hearts  are  filled 
with  loathing  of  Germany's  horrible  atrocities; 
and  we  hope,  with  all  our  hearts,  that  she  will 
be  crushed  into  the  most  abject  submission.  Don't 
let  us  hear  of  any  peace  overtures  from  America, 
please.  As  Richard  Harding  Davis  said  when 
President  Wilson  suggested  neutrality:  **He 
hasn^t  seen  this  war/* 

Your  Devoted  Sister. 

To  Victor  Morawetz,  Esq. 

London,  Sept.  3rd,  1914. 

My  dear  Victor, 

...  I  have  been  wandering  through  the  streets 
of  London  all   alone,   watching  the  movements 


34  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

and  the  character  of  this  great  city  at  this  par- 
ticular time  of  its  history.  Indeed  you  are  right 
when  you  speak  of  the  intense  moment  and  its 
great  importance.  One  can't  be  everywhere  at 
once,  and  if  France  is  horrible  and  quivering 
with  interest,  London  is  certainly  throbbing  with 
the  same  issues  too.  Its  pulse  is  slow,  but  it  is 
rising  rapidly,  and  I  think  that  by  the  time  you 
have  this  letter  it  will  have  awakened  more  com- 
pletely than  the  people  themselves  dream.  It 
has  been  like  watching  a  rising  tide  all  these 
weeks.  One  of  the  most  interesting  phases  of  it 
all  has  been  the  welding  together  and  the  blend- 
ing of  party  and  the  annihilation  of  personal  in- 
terest in  the  one  great  Cause. 

I  have  been  thinking,  too — no  doubt  you  have 
thought  the  same — that  none  of  us  have  com- 
prehended war  at  all.  The  Germans  alone  seem 
to  have  understood  it.  War  is  so  essentially  bru- 
tal that  you  can't  combine  it  with  reason  or  civili- 
sation. Why  make  civilised  war?  It  is  uncivi- 
lised, and  if  you're  going  to  make  it  at  all,  you 
may  just  as  well  do  it  to  the  limit.  At  any  rate, 
this  experience  will  prove  whether  there  can  be 
such  a  thing  as  ^'civilised  warfare."  If  the  Ger- 
mans conquer,  then  to  rush  on  like  the  Huns  is 
certainly  the  way  to  fight;  if  they  don't,  we  shall 
all  probably  decide  to  disarm.  They  have  cut 
off  the  sword  hands  of  the  little  children,  so  that 
they  may  not  bear  arms  against  them  in  the  fu- 
ture^ 

Tt  Is  soul-stirring  indeed  to  be  amongst  these 
nations  struggling  for  existence;  but  I  assure  you 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  35 

that  if  it's  not  your  own  people,  and  you  can't 
take  an  active  interest  in  what  they  are  doing,  it 
is  real  suffering  to  be  useless,  and  the  strain  is 
great  For  instance,  I  have  worked  for  the  Red 
Cross  examinations,  and  now  find  that  I  can't  be 
a  British  Red  Crossist  and  must  form  part  of  a 
foreign  legion  if  I  want  to  be  one  at  all. 

You  must  think  my  ideas  ridiculous,  but  still 
I  like  to  air  them  to  you.  If  France  is  imsuccess- 
ful,  don't  you  think  it  will  prove  that  a  republic 
surrounded  by  these  powerful  autocratic  mon- 
archies is  not  equal  to  coping  with  a  martial  situ- 
ation? If  Germany  conquers,  the  march  of  civi- 
lisation will  be  retarded  by  many  years — if  any- 
thing can  retard  the  march  of  civilisation. 

It  is  strange  to  think  that  when  you  get  this 
letter  the  fate  of  France  will  probably  be  decided 
— certainly  the  fate  of  Paris.  I  can  no  longer 
think  of  the  personal  equation  in  it,  when  I  think 
of  the  dreadful  human  sacrifice  going  on  so  near. 

Alice  Carr  Ellison  told  me  just  now  of  a  friend 
of  hers  to  whom  the  War  Office  sent  news.  To 
the  officer  who  came  and  told  her  she  said:  "Is 
my  husband  badly  wounded?"  And  he  said: 
**He's  dead."  And  she  said,  without  showing  the 
slightest  emotion:  "Thank  God  he's  not  among 
the  missing!"  That's  the  way  she  bore  it;  for 
to  be  among  the  "missing"  now  is  like  being 
among  the  savages. 

I  saw  an  Englishwoman  to-day  who  had 
escaped  from  a  German  prison.  She  said  that 
the  German  officers  trod  upon  the  people.    They 


36  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

seem  to  have  gone  blood-mad.     I  suppose  there 
is  such  a  disease. 

And  yet,  out  of  it  all,  I  know  there  will  rise 
some  great  spiritual  conquest  and  good ;  and 
everything  will,  out  of  this  baptism  of  fire  and 
blood,  come  purified.  But  the  horror  of  the  caul- 
dron! .  .  . 

A  friend  of  Marie  Edgar's  in  the  Hussars 
wrote  her  yesterday  that  he  was  in  the  Charleroi 
engagement,  and  walked  ankle-deep  in  blood; 
and  the  poor  foreign  legion  from  Africa  was  half 
exterminated. 

I  have  taken  a  house  for  Mother  on  the  Edg- 
ware  road,  about  six  miles  from  London,  and 
shall  stay  there  till  October,  if  I  can.  At  least 
mother  will,  and  if  we  are  threatened  with  disas- 
ter such  as  is  menacing  France,  why  then  I  sup- 
pose ril  have  to  bring  her  to  America. 

You  can't  think  how  splendid  Mr.  Herrick  has 
been.    Really,  I  hope  they'll  make  him  President. 

As  ever, 

M.  V. 


To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz. 

London,  Sept.  8th,  1914. 

Dear  Violet, 

For  the  past  few  days  there  has  been  no  vio- 
lent engagement,  and  we  have  been  able  to  draw 
a  breath ;  but  it  does  not  mean  that  we  are  watch- 
ing any  less  keenly  or  praying  any  the  less  fer- 
vently. 

The    recruiting   goes    on   beautifully   and  the 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  37 

spirit  of  voluntary  enlistment  Is  very  fine  and 
must  be  highly  gratifying. 

You  asked  me  to  write  you  about  the  state  of 
affairs;  but  you  see,  one  realises  that  In  the  ten 
days  It  takes  to  get  a  letter,  the  face  of  events 
must  have  changed  enormously. 

Elizabeth  Grimm  writes  me:  "Leave  London 
Immediately:  Germany  has  terrible  surprises  In 
store  for  you.  Eighty  Zeppelins  are  going  to 
fly  over  England  and  France;  and  you  must  take 
mother  to  Rotterdam,  where  I  will  spend  the 
winter  with  her.'*  Poor  Mother!  Any  further 
flight  must  be  to  America — nowhere  else. 

After  passing  five  weeks  In  Red  Cross  study 
and  lectures  and  examinations,  we  were  Informed 
the  other  day  very  curtly,  that  no  foreigners 
would  be  allowed  to  become  members  of  the  Brit- 
ish Red  Cross.  It  was  a  bitter  moment  and  I  felt 
bitterly.  A  fine-looking  Frenchwoman,  who  has 
been  scrubbing  the  floors  of  the  hospitals  and  so 
forth,  In  addition  to  the  Red  Cross  work,  has 
been  asked  to  form  a  foreign  legion,  taking  In 
the  unwelcome  French,  Belgians,  etc.  To-day  I 
sold  my  uniform,  bought  with  such  excitement 
and  Interest.  The  Foreign  Legion  will  have  the 
smartest  uniform  you  ever  saw. 

I  have  just  come  In  from  a  rifle  brigade  prac- 
tice. It  Is  really  most  gratifying  to  see  the 
women's  enthusiasm  here.  To-day  we  were 
drilled  by  an  officer  from  the  Coldstream  Guards. 
It  certainly  passes  some  of  the  time  most  agree- 
ably, even  If  one  is  tired. 

Yesterday  I  went  down  for  the  arrival  of  the 


38  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Ostend  train,  to  help  the  Belgian  refugees  from 
Malines  and  Louvain.  One  poor  little  woman 
arrived  from  Malines  with  her  husband  and  her 
old  uncle.  "It  is  exterminated,"  she  said  to  me; 
"we  have  nothing  in  the  world  but  what  we  hold 
in  our  hands." 

I  went  to  see  Arnold  Bennett's  play,  "The 
Great  Adventure."  I  sat  in  the  pit,  and  only  the 
pit  was  occupied.  It  was  one  of  those  nervous 
nights  when  at  every  corner  some  new  poster  sent 
absolute  horror  to  one's  soul.  And  now,  as  I 
write,  how  little  we  know  what  the  issue  may  be ! 
Think  what  the  devastation  is  at  best  in  our  fair 
French  fields!     I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it.  .  .  . 

Two  friends  of  Mollie  Andrews  asked  me  to 
go  out  with  them  in  a  motor,  and  we  lunched  at 
Tunbridge  Wells,  getting  back  here  at  four 
o'clock.  It  was  a  divine  and  marvellous  Septem- 
ber day,  and  the  air  did  me  a  great  deal  of  good. 
Then  I  took  my  own  taxi  and  motored  out  to 
dinner  with  Bridget  Guinness  at  Windsor  and 
spent  a  most  delightful  evening.  Mr.  Guinness 
mapped  out  the  whole  campaign  on  the  floor  with 
cards,  and  we  raved  and  raged  together,  and  it 
was  greatly  satisfying.  Mr.  G.  said  it  was  a 
privilege  to  live  in  these  times.  It  is  a  frightful 
privilege  to  be  here!  The  excitement  and  the 
suffering,  the  hope  deferred  and  the  faith  it  re- 
quires; in  the  case  of  many,  the  bitter  sacrifice, 
the  unending  agony.  Just  think  what  it  means! 
I  read  to-day  of  a  woman  who  had  four  sons 
at  the  front,  and  of  another  who  had  lost  her 
only  son.     Of  course  there  are  many  like  that. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  39 

Women  have  been  married  on  Monday  and  their 
husbands  have  left  them  the  following  day,  and 
at  the  end  of  the  week  they  have  had  telegrams 
from  the  War  Office  to  tell  them  that  they  will 
never  see  again  these  men  who  have  so  gallantly 
gone  to  stand  for  France  and  Belgium — for  that's 
what  it  means.  England  could  have  remained 
neutral,  If  it  had  not  been  for  that  eternal  bond 
of  brotherhood  which,  when  it  is  felt,  is  the 
strongest  thing  on  earth  and  the  safeguard  of 
nation  and  home. 

I  hear  that  Kitchener  went  to  France  for  forty- 
eight  hours.  He  drove  in  a  motor  as  far  along 
the  French  front  as  he  could  in  that  time,  and 
during  his  stay  there  he  organised  the  new  mili- 
tary government  of  Paris,  changed  the  old  and 
sent  the  authorities  to  Bordeaux;  but  that's  not 
official,  so  don't  tell  it  all  over  the  place  and  get 
me  in  for  something  or  other  I 

Maeterlinck  is  taboo  now  in  Germany.  Car- 
pentier,  the  prize  fighter,  has  given  up  contracts 
here  amounting  to  thousands  of  pounds  a  week 
to  go  and  fight  for  France;  Marcoux,  with  his 
American  contracts  all  bust  to  flinders,  has  taken 
his  divine  voice  into  the  ranks  to  sing  the  "Mar- 
seillaise"; and  Mordkin  and  Rachmaninoff  are 
shouldering  Russian  weapons.  Art  and  Science 
and  Letters  are  all  combining,  filling  these  bloody 
fields  with  immortal  sacrifices — oh,  how  thrilling 
It  Is  I  Yes,  it's  a  thrilling  time — a  terrible  time; 
but  there  is  a  sublimity  in  it  of  which  our  children 
will  reap  the  glories.  Cyril  Maude  is  a  special  con- 
stable, and  when  the  theatre  is  over  "Grumpy" 


40  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

patrols  the  reservoirs,  to  prevent  German  spies 
from  poisoning  the  water  of  London.  Quelles 
belles  choses  I 

I  really  think  that  I  came  very  near  having 
brain  fever.  I  went  through  the  worst  horrors, 
in  Imagination,  thinking  of  Paris,  and  Bessie,  and 
the  wreck  and  destruction.  Just  now  It*s  hold- 
ing one's  breath,  and  In  this  moment  of  waiting, 
I  close,  dearest  Violet,  with  the  most  devoted 
love. 

M. 

To  Victor  Morawetz,  Esq. 

London,  September  9th,  1914. 

My  dear  Victor, 

I  am  extremely  touched  by  your  expressions 
of  Interest  and  sympathy,  and  I  can  so  easily 
see  you  here,  agitating  for  others  and  working 
for  any  cause  In  which  you  put  your  talent  and 
your  magnetism  and  your  Interest.  Indeed,  I  am 
sure  that  if  you  were  here,  you  would  be  fight- 
ing for  France.  .  .  . 

They  will  not  have  me  on  the  British  Red  Cross 
because  I  am  an  American  and  "neutral."  I  am 
sure  you  appreciate  this  disappointment.  Still, 
I  have  two  certificates  to-day,  having  passed  two 
examinations.  There  Is  another  to-morrow,  and 
I  hope  then  to  get  the  Red  Cross  certificate, 
though  I  can't  be,  as  they  say,  **on  the  strength." 

When  you  receive  this,  we  shall  all  of  us  know 
what  the  Allies  have  been  able  to  do.  From  the 
very  best  authority  here  I  have  It  that  four  French 
Generals   were    shot    for    treachery    at  Namur. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  41 

Fancy  what  It  would  have  been  if  England  had 
not  gone  to  the  rescue!  Is  it  not  picturesque — 
that  response  of  the  British  armies  of  India  and 
Canada,  of  the  farmer  boys  from  the  cold  North 
and  the  Indians,  who  are  bringing  their  beauti- 
ful mounts  with  them?  Wouldn't  you  love  to  see 
that  battlefield — since  one  there  must  be — or,  if 
not  the  battlefield,  the  assembly? 

There  has  not  been,  since  I  came  to  England, 
one  note  of  doubt  as  to  the  righteousness  of  the 
Cause. 

One  of  Wanamaker's  managers,  Mr.  Helmer, 
has  just  come  through  from  Paris.  He  and  a  few. 
others  chartered  a  boat  and  came  by  the  Seine 
to  Rouen,  their  passage  costing  them  fifty  dol- 
lars apiece  and  their  individual  fees  mounting  to 
sixty  dollars  between  Paris  and  Rouen.  There 
their  boat  was  taken  away  from  them,  mines  be- 
ing laid  in  the  Seine  and  the  bridges  blown  up. 
At  Rouen,  where  they  hoped  to  pass  the  night, 
they  were  told  that  the  Germans  might  arrive 
any  moment,  and  they  tolled  painfully  on  to 
Havre,  where  Mr.  H.  told  me  pandemonium 
reigned  supreme.  Thousands  of  American  and 
English  refugees  were  thronging  the  streets  and 
the  hotels,  and  the  little  steamer,  supposed  to 
accommodate  five  hundred  people  at  the  most, 
carried  fifteen  hundred  over,  crowded  like  sar- 
dines, and  their  baggage  was  left  standing  in  the 
streets  of  Havre.  Think  of  it!  He  is  a  very 
quiet,  unimpressionable  American  business  man, 
but  I  have  seen  no  one  more  impressed  and  over- 
whelmed by  the  situation  than  he.     I  am  a  radi- 


42  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

ant  optimist  compared  with  him.  He  doesn'f 
think  it  a  possible  thing  for  the  Germans  to  be 
conquered  in  France.  He  is  anxious  to  return 
to  Paris  and  do  what  he  can  for  the  people  there. 
He  gave  me  a  picture  of  the  deserted  streets,  of 
the  closed  hotels  and  shops,  and  congratulated 
me  very  warmly  on  the  fact  that  I  was  not  there 
and  had  made  such  an  easy  exit.  It  took  one 
of  the  Daily  Mail  correspondents  fifty  hours  to 
get  from  London  to  Paris.  The  risks  of  being 
confined  there  hermetically  sealed,  have  been 
what  has  kept  me  from  going  back  now — purely 
on  account  of  Mother;  but  it  is  hard  to  remain 
here,  as  you  can  imagine.  .  .  . 

I  know  you  will  be  pleased  at  the  notice  in 
Punch  of  my  book.  Not  much,  perhaps,  but  it 
is  a  great  honour  to  be  spoken  of  in  that  paper, 
it  seems.  .  .  . 

Four  British  Army  nurses  have  been  brought 
home  shot. 

No  more  for  the  present. 

Yours,  etc., 

M. 

To  Mrs,  Victor  Morawetz. 

London,  Sept.  12th,  1914. 

Dear  Violet, 

...  I  just  want  you  to  note  what  trouble  I 
have  taken  to  get  letters  to  you  and  to  others 
during  this  time,  when  people  are  left  without 
news.  I  sent  you  letters  by  hand  by  three  dif- 
ferent people  who  were  going  over,  and  some 
gloves  by  a  fourth  person.     I  have  sent  Bessie 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  43 

letters  by  Richard  Harding  Davis,  and  it  was 
amusing  to  see  him  pack  them  away  in  his  bag 
with  his  passports  and  letters  of  introduction. 
And  I  have  sent  them  over  and  over  again  by 
a  courier.  I  only  mention  this  to  show  what 
can  be  done   if  one  cares.  .  .  . 

Mother  moves  into  her  other  house  on  Tues- 
day, and  I  give  up  my  rooms  here.  I  have  not 
yet  decided  whether  I  shall  go  out  to  Edgware 
and  remain  there  with  Mother  for  a  month,  or 
whether  I  shall  start  away  next  week  to  see  Bes- 
sie and  Mme.  de  Sers.  After  all,  it  doesn't  make 
much  difference  now,  does  it?  as  the  Germans 
have  not  quite  ruined  France,  and  the  Allies  are 
successful.     That's  all  that  counts. 

To-night  the  searchlights  are  being  flashed 
from  the  London  buildings,  ready  for  the  Zep- 
pelins if  they  come;  but  nobody  seems  to  be  afraid 
of  them  any  more. 

I  passed  the  third  Red  Cross  examination  yes- 
terday. I  look  upon  it  now  as  only  an  added  bit 
of  knowledge,  because  we  shall  not  be  used;  but 
I  have  enjoyed  it. 

Somehow,  nothing  seems  the  same  any  more, 
although  I  think  that  things  will  adjust  them- 
selves all  over  this  great  troubled  land;  because 
it  seems  as  though  a  spirit  was  moving  over 
everything  that  perhaps  has  never  been  there  be- 
fore. England  was  said  to  be  degenerate.  Sure- 
ly, if  there  has  been  any  degeneracy,  an  almighty 
upward  movement  has  been  brought  about  by 
this  crisis.  What  a  power  she  has  been  through- 
out her  Empire  I    We  speak  of  the  German  sys- 


44  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

tern:  What  Is  It?  Within  the  confines  of  a  sin- 
gle country,  a  forced,  autocratic  materialism. 
Whereas,  as  you  see,  this  wide  response  of  the 
British  Empire  from  shore  to  shore,  from  these 
princes  of — let  us  not  say  a  conquered  people, — 
from  subject  races,  from  colony  and  Island,  this 
mighty  answer,  this  evidence  of  affection,  this 
consolidation  without  compulsion,  why.  It  seems 
to  me  that  It  Is  one  of  the  finest  things  In  his- 
tory; not  to  speak  of  the  voluntary  enlistment 
of  what  will  be  a  million  men!  ...  I  believe 
that  It  all  comes  from  a  certain  Idealism;  also 
from  the  fact  that  If  the  proper  Cause  Is  present, 
the  men  and  the  means  are  there  too.  .  .  . 

Madelon  Hancock  Is  determined  to  go  to  Ant- 
werp— alone,  by  herself.  .  .  .  She  has  bought  a 
nurse's  costume,  but  what  she  will  do  In  Ant- 
werp, or  how  long  she  will  be  permitted  to  stay, 
I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Devotedly, 

M. 


To  Mrs.  John  Van  Vorst,  Paris. 

London,  Sept.  12th,  1914. 

Dear  Bessie, 

It  Is  a  great  comfort  to  be  able  to  send  In  this 
manner,  and  If  you  will  have  a  letter  ready  for 
this  man,  he  will  bring  It  back  to  me.  .  .  . 

The  news  Is  so  glorious  that  we  no  longer  have 
any  fear.  Of  course  you  hear  of  the  French,  and 
we  hear  this  marvellous  English  news  of  staunch 
and  brilliant  action;  and  I  assure  you  that  It's 
thrilling  beyond  words. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  45 

It  Is  interesting  in  every  way  to  be  here — to 
see  the  unparalleled  unity  of  this  nation.  What 
an  Empire,  isn't  it?  From  shore  to  shore,  what 
loyalty!  Think!  Five  hundred  thousand  volun- 
teers in  a  month — and  all  so  willing  to  go !  What 
a  lesson  to  militarism,  and  how  uplifting!  No 
wonder  they  fight ! 

I  hope  you  have  received  the  papers  that  give 
you  a  picture  of  the  Indian  and  Canadian  re- 
sponse. Really  it's  picturesque,  isn't  it?  I  am 
sure  you  will  be  interested  in  the  enclosed  clip- 
pings. 

I  have  an  idea  that  I  shall  see  you  before  very 
long.  I  think  your  courage  has  been  superb  and 
it  must  give  you   great  satisfaction.  .  .  . 

Devotedly  yours, 

M. 


To  Mr,  F.  B.  Van  Vorst,  New  York, 

London,  Sept.  22nd,  1914. 

Dear  Frederick, 

.  .  .  We  are  not  exciting  enough,  here  in  Eng- 
land, to  be  in  danger,  unless  a  possible  visit  of 
a  Zeppelin  may  be  called  so ;  but  we  are  certainly 
palpitating  with  interest,  extremely  picturesque, 
and  if  one  may  judge  of  what  is  going  on  across 
the  Channel,  in  the  deeds  of  those  magnificent 
bulldog  regiments,  we  are  superb  and  brave.  I 
don't  suppose  in  the  annals  of  war  anything  has 
been  more  surprising  than  the  vigour  and  the 
dogged  continuance  of  this  repulse.  When  you 
think  that  men  have  now,  as  I  write,  been  fight- 


46  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

ing  for  ten  days,  one  might  almost  say  without 
respite,  wearing,  many  of  them,  the  same  clothes 
in  which  they  left  England,  without  daring  to, 
take  off  their  boots  lest  their  poor  feet  should 
swell  so  that  they  couldn't  put  them  on  again,  one 
can  judge  a  little  of  the  hardships  of  this  modern 
war. 

The  scenes  here  are  delightful  and  pathetic  as 
well.  You  can't  believe  that,  in  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury, anything  so  amusing  as  this  Highland  cos- 
tume could  still  exist,  yet  officers  with  bare  knees 
and  checkered  stockings  stand  before  the  fire- 
place in  hotels,  smoking  and  talking  as  serenely 
as  though,  within  thirty-six  hours,  they  might  not 
be  leading  one  of  those  mad  charges  up  a  French 
hill.  They  are  fighting  in  trenches  up  to  their 
waists  In  water  now,  and  think  what  the  fields 
around  Paris  must  be!  Those  days  when  the 
Germans  were  within  a  few  miles  of  the  gates 
made  one's  heart  sick,  and  even  now  we  are  not 
sure  that  they  may  not  have  another  try,  although 
it  is  not  likely. 

Journeys  at  this  time  are  long  and  eventful. 
A  correspondent  of  the  Daily  Mail  travelled  with 
a  Turco  whos^  trousers  were  all  dripping  with 
blood.  "Are  you  badly*  hurt?"  the  Daily  Mail 
man  asked  sympathetically;  and  the  grinning  nig- 
ger said:  "Oh,  no!  Take  this  back  to  Africa," 
and  he  pulled  out  of  his  baggy  trousers  the  drip- 
ping head  of  a  German.  Imagine  the  sensation 
in  the  railway  train !  An  editor  of  the  Daily  Mail 
told  me  this  himself  at  lunch  the  other  day.  .  .  . 
The  trains,  it  seems,  are  full  of  vermin  and  the 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  47 

seats  covered  with  filth  and  blood.  They  can't 
clean  them  out  properly.  And  they  say  that  over- 
land travel  from  Paris  southwards  is  full  of  dis- 
turbing and  wearying  adventures. 

In  Clarges  Street,  where  I  have  been  staying, 
much  that  Is  picturesque  passes  by  the  front  door. 
An  old  man  plays  on  a  harp  the  songs  that  the 
boys  are  singing  on  the  battlefield;  and  there  is 
a  most  pathetic  little  Punch  and  Judy  man  with 
a  dog  whose  attractiveness  would  touch  your 
heart.  You  can  be  sure  that  he  does  not  go  by 
without  a  reward. 

.  .  .  They  say  that  the  military  Red  Cross 
nurses  are  swishing  around  in  great  style  in  Paris, 
and  that  every  one  is  mad  to  be  a  nurse ! 

It  is  hard  to  realise  in  this  quiet  England,  se- 
rene in  these  September  days,  that  the  death  strug- 
gle and  the  dreadful  grip  of  war  is  going  on  only 
a  few  miles  away,  with  such  tremendous  issues 
at  stake.  .  .  . 

What  do  you  think  of  the  destruction  of  beau- 
tiful Rhelms,  where  Jeanne  d'Arc  saw  the  king 
crowned?  Mutable  and  immutable!  And  one 
asks  one's  self  over  and  over  again:  "What 
lasts?"  What  indeed?  And  far  up  in  Lorraine 
and  Alsace  they  will  answer:  "Qui  vive?  La 
France  quand-meme !"  And  perhaps  there  are  cer- 
tain things  that  because  of  an  inherent  love  and 
loyalty.  In  spite  of  disaster  and  far-flung  battle 
lines  and  constant  change,  persist — quand- 
meme.  .  .  . 


48  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

To  Miss  B.  S,  Andrews,  New  York. 

Edgware,  Sept.  28th,  1914. 

Dearest  Belle, 

...  I  came  down  this  morning  In  the  train 
from  Windsor  with  a  youn^  officer,  not  more 
than  twenty-two  years  of  age — one  of  the  most 
attractive-looking  young  men  I  ever  saw — such 
a  clean,  fine  face.  He  had  just  come  back  from 
the  battle  of  the  Aisne,  where  he  was  wounded. 
His  arm  was  all  done  up  in  a  big  silk  St.  John's 
bandage.  He  said  that  he  had  been  fighting  for 
three  weeks  and  had  not  had  his  clothes  off  once 
in  that  time,  nor  his  boots,  and  that  he  had  only 
once  during  that  time  seen  the  enemy.  I  am 
going  to  give  you  all  this  information  en  bloc, 
while  I  can  remember  what  he  said.  It  is  the 
first  personal  note  I  have  had  of  this  vast,  horrible 
war.  .  .  .  He  said  that  the  German  organisa- 
tion Is  beyond  words  superb,  and  that  there  never 
was  such  an  army  to  meet,  and  that  It  Is  extraordi- 
nary that  both  the  Allies  and  English  have  been 
able  to  stand  up  against  It  at  all.  He  said  that 
the  German  officer  proper,  of  the  best  regiments, 
IS  courteous  and  considerate,  and  that  when  you 
realise  that  they  have  four  or  fiwt  million  men 
all  war-mad,  to  deal  with,  their  job  Is  not  easy. 
He  said  they  lay  twenty-four  hours  In  the  trenches, 
in  the  wet  and  cold,  soaked  through,  and  that  all 
the  weaklings  of  his  regiment  were  killed,  for 
those  that  were  not  shot  died  from  exhaustion 
and  pneumonia.  There  were  twenty-six  officers 
in  his  regiment  and  only  six  came  out  alive.     He 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  49 

was  one  of  this  little  number.  He  had  no  idea 
that  he  would  ever  see  England  again.  His  school 
pal,  and  an  officer  like  himself,  was  by  his  side 
all  through  the  engagement,  and  he  turned  to  this 
boy  and  said :  "Won^t  we  have  a  jolly  time  when 
we  get  back  to  England?"  And  just  at  that  mo- 
ment he  was  shot  through  the  heart.  This  boy 
burled  him  after  the  battle,  digging  his  grave 
and  taking  his  cigarette  case  and  things  from  his 
pocket.  He  said  he  would  otherwise  have  been 
left  there  on  that  field,  unburled,  as  they  had  no 
time  even  to  drag  out  the  wounded.  He  was 
finally  hit  by  a  shell — shoulder  broken — then  lay 
for  thIrty-sIx  hours  In  a  base  hospital  in  a  little 
French  town,  where  the  care  was  not  very  good. 
He  said  the  whole  town  around  tliem  was  re- 
duced to  powder  and  ashes,  but  the  hospital  was 
spared;  and  that  night  they  all  escaped  in  Red 
Cross  waggons,  the  searchlights  of  the  enemy  fol- 
lowing them  like  the  eyes  of  demons  and  shining 
upon  their  faces  even  at  a  distance  of  four  miles. 
But  the  Germans  did  not  shell  the  hospital  wag- 
gons. He  was  piled  in  a  cattle  truck  with  other 
wounded  men  and  made  the  return  journey  to 
England  In  that  way  as  far  as  the  Channel  boat. 
Several  of  his  personal  friends  died  on  that  dread- 
ful trip. 

When  you  see  the  Hower  of  England  sacrificed 
like  this,  it  seems  too  bad,  doesn't  it?  And  all 
for  what?  He  said  that  he  thought  they  wouldn't 
get  the  Germans  out  of  France  before  Christmas. 

My  cousins  In  Brussels  are  cut  off  from  all  the 
rest  of  the  world.     My  cousin  writes  me   that 


50  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

his  wife  is  more  distant  from  him  than  if  she 
were  in  Calcutta  or  New  York,  although  he  can 
see  Brussels  from  the  forts  of  Antwerp.  He  is 
there  with  the  King,  and  she  is  doing  ambulance 
work  in  her  own  city.  Brave,  isn't  it — wonder- 
fully brave? 

I  wish  you  could  see  the  arms  of  light  that 
flash  across  these  skies  here  at  night  now — great 
long  fans  of  radiance,  searching  for  Zeppelins, 
though  what  they'd  do  when  they  found  them, 
God  knows ! 

We  hear  that  Kreisler  is  wounded.  No  one  is 
spared. 

Yours, 
M. 


To  Mrs,  Victor  Morawetz, 

Paris,  Oct.  3rd,  1914. 

Dear  Violet, 

I  left  London  to  go  to  France  on  a  divinely 
beautiful  day,  cloudless  and  balmy.  The  train 
and  boat  were  crowded  with  people  who  were 
venturing  like  timid  rats  out  of  their  holes  back, 
as  they  hoped,  to  a  secure  city.  The  Channel 
crossing  took  six  hours  and  was  very  good.  As  I 
had  on  my  uniform  I  passed  in  pounds  and  pounds 
of  tea  and  cigarettes  for  the  British  wounded, 
friends  of  English  friends.  There  was  a  big  con- 
tingent of  Red  Cross  nurses  on  the  boat,  going  to 
Limoges,  and  I  gave  the  Chief  a  letter  to  the 
dear  Havilands.  Every  one  talked  to  every  one 
else  with  the  most  good-natured  friendliness. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  51 

The  late  September  sunlight  was  red  around 
the  shores  of  old  Dieppe  as  we  drew  in.  I  do 
not  know  quite  what  changed  aspect  I  had  looked 
for,  but  there  was  no  change.  France  Is  always 
beautiful  and  seemed  more  beautiful  than  ever 
now.  The  men  who  had  not  gone  to  the  war 
were  younger  and  more  sturdy  than  we  had  ex- 
pected to  see. 

As  soon  as  we  pulled  Into  the  first  station, 
seven  wounded  soldiers  were  hurried  in  and  took 
their  places  In  a  vacant  compartment  next  to  us, 
shared  with  them  by  the  head  woman  from 
Worth's  and  a  pretty  little  fitter.  Picture  the 
colour  of  this — the  men  in  their  dirty  red  and  blue 
uniforms,  and  the  pimpante  little  dressmakers 
sharing  their  luncheon  with  their  wounded 
brothers  and  chattering  with  them  like  devoted, 
gay  little  birds. 

The  men  were  talkative,  and  told  of  the  days 
and  nights  in  the  trenches,  and  the  history  of 
their  wounds,  as  they  will  tell  their  brave  stories 
until  they  are  old  men.  One  had  had  his  eye  shot 
out — such  a  delicate-looking  young  fellow;  an- 
other's wound  was  in  his  back,  and  there  were 
three  holes  in  his  coat  where  the  bullets  had 
only  grazed  him. 

One  young  man  said  that  as  his  companions 
and  he  lay  under  cover  their  hiding  place  was 
betrayed  by  a  seventeen-year-old  French  girl 
in  the  neighbouring  village.  The  Prussians 
menaced  her  with  death,  and  to  save  her  life  she 
sold  her  people.  When  you  think  what  they  have 
done  to  the  women  and  children,  it  is  hard  to 


52  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

judge  her.     Fortunately,  this  special  little  band 
was  able  to  cope  with  its  pursuers. 

On  the  Channel  boat  there  was  an  American 
woman  who  had  come  from  Dinant,  where  she 
had  seen  the  arrival  of  countless  refugees  from 
Belgium  who  had  walked  to  Dinant  on  foot;  so 
these  Incidents  come  from  her  who  saw  the  peo- 
ple, to  me,  who  repeat  them  to  you. 

She  saw  four  or  five  little  boys  with  their 
hands  cut  off  at  the  wrist  by  the  Prussian  soldiers. 
She  saw  a  woman  who  had  lost  her  mind  because 
her  sister  and  her  sister's  children  had  been  put 
to  death  by  the  sword  before  her  very  eyes  in  the 
little  inn  where  the  woman  had  given  the  soldiers 
nourishment  and  lodgings. 

But  I  am  sure  that  you  have  heard  enough  of 
these  never-ending  atrocities — France  Is  full  of 
them  and  Belgium  encore  I 

There  was  nobody  to  meet  me  at  the  station 
when  I  arrived  In  Paris,  and  the  desolation  of 
Paris  soon  began  to  assert  Itself.  The  streets 
were  scarcely  lit  anywhere.  However,  nothing 
could  spoil  the  return.  The  weather  being  mild, 
the  apartment  was  comfortable,  and  In  a  few 
moments  everything  necessary  was  put  In  order 
and  after  the  London  lodgings  and  the  exile,  the 
sweetness  of  it  was  beyond  any  words  to  express 
— alone  as  I  was.  It  seemed  too  good  to  be  true, 
that  this  beloved  little  place  had  really  been 
spared  to  me  a  little  longer. 

Below  In  the  concierge's  lodge,  huddled  In  a 
chair,  sat  the  lodger  over  me — a  little  old  gentle- 
man who  lives  quietly  here  and  whom  nothing 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  53 

would  induce  to  leave  Paris.  He  had  had  his 
instructions  from  the  proprietor  to  cover  the  roof 
of  the  apartment  with  heavy  water-soaked  mat- 
tresses in  case  of  bombs,  and  he  had  taken  all 
his  most  precious  possessions  downstairs  on  the 
first  floor.  It  seems  that  the  taubes  flew  low  and 
circled  for  days  over  the  Chambre  des  Deputes 
and  this  little  place,  and  God  knows  why  they 
did  not  drop  their  fiendish  loads.  Only  two  days 
before  a  bomb  had  fallen  in  the  Rue  de  I'Univer- 
site,  the  street  next  to  mine. 

The  following  morning  I  went  to  the  ofiice  of 
the  Matin  and  learned  that  young  Robert  Le 
Roux  had  been  shot  at  Toul  in  a  recent  engage- 
ment, and  that  the  news  was  just  as  bad  as  it 
could  be. 

The  following  day,  as  there  is  absolutely  noth- 
ing to  do  here,  and  I  felt  more  than  anxious  to 
put  into  practice  some  of  my  new-found  skill,  I 
went  to  the  American  Ambulance  at  Neuilly. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  this  picture,  could 
touch  the  excitement  and  the  vividness  of  life 
that  come  at  such  a  time  as  this.  In  June  Mother 
and  I  drove  past  a  beautiful-looking  new  build- 
ing in  the  style  of  Frangois  Premier,  and  won- 
dered what  it  was;  if  we  could  only  have  seen 
just  then  the  picture  I  was  to  see  next  time  I  ap- 
proached that  building.  It  was  the  Pasteur  In- 
stitute, incomplete,  and  now  so  replete.  Paris 
has  given  it  over  to  Mrs.  Vanderbilt,  and  before 
each  window  hang  the  luminous  dark  blue  cur- 
tains to  shade  the  light  from  the  invalided  eyes. 

In  front  of  the  place  was  a  constant  va-et-vient 


54  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

of  Red  Cross  motor  ambulances.  As  I  went  in 
two  of  these  were  arriving  from  the  trains,  and 
I  saw  five  blue-coated,  red-trousered  soldiers  car- 
ried in. 

The  corridors  are  full  of  the  house  surgeons 
and  orderlies — men  who  have  volunteered  their 
services,  mostly  American,  some  English.  There 
were  artists  from  the  Latin  Quarter  and  young 
clerks  from  the  shops,  all  busy  in  the  service  of 
this  country  which  has  given  its  treasures  to  us 
all  for  so  many  years. 

I  saw  Mrs.  Vanderbilt  shortly  after,  and  of- 
fered my  services,  which  she  was  so  good  as  to 
accept  immediately.  I  also  promised  to  bring  her 
Miss  Arkwright,  who  is  to  arrive  to-day  from 
London,  and  Glory  Hancock  for  whom  I  have 
telegraphed  to  Antwerp. 

In  one  of  the  big  rooms  where  I  worked  yester- 
day some  fifty  women  are  engaged  preparing  the 
bandages.  That  sounds  hke  nothing,  does  it  not? 
It  is  one  of  the  most  important  things  in  the  hos- 
pital, and  a  never-ceasing  occupation.  I  wish 
you  could  see  that  room.  The  workers  are  ladies 
almost  all  of  them,  and  many  of  them  are  strik- 
ingly beautiful,  with  that  distinction  and  grace 
that  the  American  woman  possesses  to  such  a 
marked  extent.  There  has  been  no  effort  at  put- 
ting them  all  into  a  regulation  uniform — down 
here,  in  the  bandage  room,  at  any  rate — and 
some  of  them  have  come  from  their  homes  and 
wear  their  own  pretty  blouses  and  their  high- 
heeled  slippers  and  their  ear-rings,  the  rest  being 
enveloped  in  the  all-concealing  apron.     Many  are 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  SS 

in  the  full  uniform  of  the  hospital,  that  is  in  snow- 
white,  with  red  crosses  on  their  breasts  and  a  lit- 
tle coif  on  their  heads,  mediaeval  in  its  effect,  and 
under  their  hands  and  round  about  them  all  are 
yards  upon  yards,  and  piles  upon  piles  of  the  fine 
snowy  material  that  is  to  go  out  from  here  to  its 
ghastly  yet  merciful  usage. 

Here  I  worked  yesterday  all  day  long,  and 
from  here  I  shall  be  called  shortly,  when  needed, 
to  go  upstairs  into  the  wards. 

Here  I  saw  the  English  Chaplain,  with  his  Doc- 
tor of  Divinity  cap  on  his  head — another  pic- 
turesque figure — and  he  told  me  that  the  mor- 
tality was  something  frightful,  that  the  Ameri- 
can hospital  asked  for  the  worst  cases,  and  got 
them  with  a  vengeance.  He  looked  worn  and 
troubled;  he  has  been  at  so  many  deathbeds  of 
brave  British  officers  torn  suddenly  from  peace- 
ful England,  from  their  sports  and  from  their 
home  occupations,  to  spill  their  blood  on  this 
foreign  shore,  almost  without  warning,  scarcely 
knowing  why,  and  their  people  certainly  not 
knowing  where  they  had  fallen.  In  many  cases 
no  communication  has  been  made  with  their 
friends  until  they  have  gone  for  ever. 

In  my  lodging  house  in  London  I  took  an 
interest  in  Mrs.  B.,  whose  young  husband,  Capt. 
B.,  in  the  Coldstream  Guards,  was  aide-de-camp 
to  the  General.  He  died  on  the  14th  September, 
alone,  in  a  barn — quite  alone — shot  through  the 
intestines.  She  never  knew  until  the  end  of  the 
month  that  he  was  even  wounded. 

I  went  upstairs  yesterday  to  talk  with  a  young 


S6  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

lieutenant  of  the  same  regiment — such  a  nice  boy. 
I  really  do  not  think  he  was  more  than  19,  and 
he  looked  like  a  child.  He  sat  there  In  the  dress- 
ing-gown that  some  American  gentleman  had 
given  him,  his  brown  hands  clasped  so  meekly — 
such  a  charming,  gentle  chap.  I  tell  you,  it  makes 
your  heart  sick  when  you  think  of  the  flower  of 
English  manhood,  with  all  Its  promise,  being 
mown  down  by  those  barbarians  to  whom  honour 
is  only  a  word,  and  In  whose  souls,  so  far,  we 
have  not  seen  one  glimmer  of  spirituality  or  grace. 
A  woman  I  know  here  had  her  house  rifled, 
and  what  was  left  desecrated  by  the  Crown 
Prince  and  his  officers.  He  packed  up  boxes  full 
of  her  treasures,  had  them  marked  with  the  Red 
Cross,  to  ensure  their  respect  by  the  Allied  ar- 
mies, and  shipped  them  to  Germany — a  robber 
who  should  have  been  a  prince,  a  murderer  who 
should  have  been  a  knight.  Best  love, 

M. 

To  Mrs.  Louis  Stoddard,  New  Haven,  Conn. 

Dear  MolIie, 

I  lunched  yesterday  with  a  Depute  and  with 
one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  Military  Red  Cross  here. 
The  latter  was  one  of  the  big  French  doctors, 
a  man  who  has  had  charge  of  field  ambulances, 
and  he  said  that  whilst  he  was  tending  the  wound- 
ed on  the  field  near  Paris  a  German  officer  with 
two  others,  came  up  to  him,  when  his  hands  were 
busy  with  bandages,  and,  with  his  pistol  at  the 
doctor's  breast,  demanded  his  watch  and  his  porte- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  57 

monnale,  all  of  which,  of  course,  were  handed 
over.  "I  gave  up  my  belongings,'*  said  the  doc- 
tor, *'and  they  turned  and  walked  off  together. 
Strangely  enough,  they  had  not  sufficiently  pro- 
tected themselves,  for  a  man  whom  I  was  tend- 
ing— a  wounded  officer — still  had  his  pistol.  I 
tore  it  out  of  its  case,  and  I  shot  all  three  in  the 
back  as  they  walked  away."  No  doubt  he  would 
be  blamed  by  those  whose  codes  are  against  shoot- 
ing men  in  the  back,  but  I  do  not  think  you  will 
blame  him,  will  you? 

But  to  the  stories  and  pictures  of  this  war 
there  Is  absolutely  no  end. 

Larue's,  the  restaurant,  is  full  of  generals 
and  their  staffs,  newspaper  correspondents  (there 
won't  be  many  left,  though,  presently.,  for  they 
are  all  being  sent  away).  Red  Cross  nurses,  and 
the  drifting  few  who  have  remained  and  those 
who  are  merely  passing  through. 

After  my  work  last  night  I  walked  all  the  way 
home  from  the  Porte  Maillot,  and  stopped  on 
the  way  at  the  Astoria,  where  the  Red  Cross  Is 
In  full  swing.  There,  sitting  on  a  chair  in  the 
corridor,  I  found  a  woman  weeping,  and  It  was 
poor  little  L.,  our  slipper  woman.  She  had  come 
to  deliver  a  pair  of  slippers  for  the  head  nurse. 
She  said  to  me:  "Oh,  Mademoiselle,  for  the  love 
of  Heaven,  give  me  something  to  do — anything, 
wash  floors,  or  scrub— something  to  take  me  out 
of  the  Rue  Cambon  and  my  shop  so  that  I  may 
forget  those  fields  and  that  dreadful  distance 
where  my  son  Is.  I  know  nothing  of  him,  I  have 
heard  nothing  of  him,  and  I  cannot  go  on  mak- 


58  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

ing  slippers  for  the  Americans  and  for  my  cli- 
ents; I  want  to  change  my  ideas."  I  shall  cer- 
tainly try  to  do  something  for  the  woman,  even 
if  I  only  bring  her  to  my  house  and  let  her  sit 
and  sew  in  my  parlour,  so  as  to  comfort  her  if 
I  can.  Devotedly, 

Marie. 

To  Miss  B,  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 

Dearest  Belle, 

Amongst  the  parcels  given  me  to  bring  from 
London  was  a  pair  of  field  glasses  sent  to  a  lit- 
tle subaltern,  for  field  glasses  are  almost  impos- 
sible to  buy  now,  as  there  are  none  left  in  Paris; 
and  one  of  the  girls  who  had  laden  me  down  with 
messages  offered  to  pay  my  way  around  Paris  for 
the  delivery  of  these  things,  thinking  that  cabs 
would  be  rare.  So  I  took  a  carriage  and  devoted 
the  entire  day  to  these  little  commissions.  The 
man  I  used  to  employ  has  gone  to  the  war ;  forty 
horses  have  been  taken  from  that  stable  and  only 
two  left,  and  I  had  one  of  those  two — a  broken- 
down  old  black  thing — driven  by  a  man  on  the 
pleasant  side  of  sixty,  I  should  say. 

After  clattering  around  for  some  time,  I  found 
a  little  old  pharmacien  and  his  little  old  wife,  far 
down  on  the  Boulevard  du  Temple,  sitting  over 
their  soup  au  choux  at  mid-day.  They  had  both 
been  weeping,  and  when  I  knocked  at  the  door, 
they  started  up  in,  I  think,  alarm  lest  it  might  be 
one  of  those  dreaded  announcements:  "Tue  a 
Tennemie."    They  were  so  old  both  of  them,  their 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  59 

voices  were  well-nigh  gone.  They  looked  such 
pitiable  objects  of  humanity,  everything  worn 
away  by  the  years  but  their  power  of  suffering, 
and  their  love.  Over  my  shoulder  was  slung 
the  pair  of  field-glasses  sent  by  the  daughter — a 
French  maid  to  Lady  C.  in  London — to  her 
brother  on  the  field,  and  I  could  hardly  give  them 
without  tears.  I  do  not  think  I  did.  I  had  only 
seen  the  maid  once,  she  was  nothing  to  me,  and 
when  she  asked  me  to  carry  those  field-glasses 
it  was  one  more  packet  where  I  had  already  so 
many.  They  were  always  in  the  way  when  I 
wanted  to  unbutton  my  coat  and  get  out  my  purse, 
and  bothered  me  on  the  whole  journey,  but  when  I 
took  them  off  and  handed  them  to  the  parents,  and 
saw  their  delight,  and  gave  them  the  message 
from  London,  well,  I  have  not  done  one  little 
thing  which  has  given  me  so  much  pleasure  in  a 
long  while. 

After  that,  Webb  and  I  drove  through  the 
Marche  du  Temple,  and  I  bought  all  the  vege- 
tables for  the  soup  and  our  luncheon  myself,  and 
the  whole  luncheon  that  day  only  cost  me  a  franc. 
I  cooked  it  myself,  and  it  showed  me  how  much 
money  is  continually  wasted  on  food. 

Upstairs,  in  the  office  of  the  Matin,  I  stood 
with  Le  Roux's  secretary  before  a  big  military 
map  on  Robert's  desk,  and  saw  how  he  had  fol- 
lowed day  by  day  and  week  by  week  the  cam- 
paigns of  that  soldier  son,  marking  with  blue  pen- 
cil from  Paris  north  to  Toul;  and  I  saw  the  big 
ring  around  Toul,  and  the  letters  by  the  side  of 
that  map,  ranged  so  carefully,  to  his  father;  and 


6o  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

the  letters  on  the  other  side,  ranged  so  carefully, 
day  by  day,  to  his  sister,  and  day  by  day  to  the 
young  girl  whom  he  should  have  married  the 
night  before  he  left  for  the  front — and  my  heart 
ached.  It  all  seems  such  a  cruel,  dreadful  waste, 
although  out  of  it  heroes  will  rise,  and  new  events 
and  new  destinies  will  make  new  powers,  and  the 
new  "couche"  will  be  better  than  the  old — with 
what  blood  and  tears  the  flowers  are  watered; 
and  I  thought  of  Robert  hurrying  down  over 
those  encumbered  roads,  with  his  breaking  heart, 
for  he  certainly  loved  his  children  most  deeply. 
How  profound  and  touching  everything  is  in 
these  days! 

It  is  full  moon  again,  and  it  rises  over  these 
grey  roofs  and  over  these  lovely  trees  with  the 
same  tranquil  beauty  as  before.  They  do  not 
light  the  clock  in  the  Chambre  des  Deputes,  the 
hours  are  no  longer  luminous — one  might  say; 
everywhere  and  everything  seems  to  be  watching 
and  waiting — ^but  the  clock  speaks  just  the  same 
and  marks  the  hours.  .  .  . 

When  you  think  that  what  I  saw  yesterday 
was  only  the  picture  of  one  afternoon  in  one 
military  hospital.  It  makes  you  shudder  to  Im- 
agine the  anguish  that  Is  spread  over  four  coun- 
tries at  this  present  moment. 

When  I  went  In  yesterday,  taking  with  me 
Miss  Arkwrlght,  a  nurse  from  Guy's  Hospital, 
London,  to  Mrs.  Vanderbllt,  I  found  that  she  had 
picked  rr'^  out  of  the  bandage  room  (probably 
because  I  made  such  poor  bandages),  and  ap- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  6i 

pointed  me  to  Ward  69.  I  assure  you,  when  I 
heard  then  that  I  was  actually  going  into  a  hos- 
pital ward  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  you  could 
have  bought  me  for  twenty-five  centimes.  I  have 
always  gone  past  surgical  wards  with  my  eyes 
straight  in  front  of  me,  but  when  Mrs.  V.  fixed 
me  with  her  serene  look,  I  did  not  dare  to  flinch. 
Why  should  I?  I  had  come  for  work.  As  we 
walked  through  those  interminable  halls  together, 
she  said  calmly,  "It  is  the  worst  ward  in  the  hos- 
pital; you  have  had  some  experience,  haven't 
you?"  And  I  said,  "Only  home  nursing,  but  I 
am  not  afraid;"  and,  singularly  enough,  I  was 
not.  It  was  up  to  me,  and  I  would  not  have 
flinched  for  anything  In  the  world. 

When  the  door  opened  on  Ward  69  you  could 
have  cut  the  atmosphere  of  that  room  with  a 
knife!  Never,  never  have  you  dreamed  of  such 
an  odour!  There  were  only  seven  men  in  that 
room,  and  five  women  nurses.  "Pretty  good 
average,"  you  would  say.  Well,  from  the  mo- 
ment I  entered  that  room  at  two  o'clock  until  I 
left  it  at  seven,  not  one  of  us  had  sat  down  once. 

I  was  presented  to  the  head  nurse — such  an 
angel !  A  Canadian,  of  course — I  am  crazy  about 
Canadians,  men  and  women;  there  is  something 
superb  about  them.  Then  another  London  nurse, 
a  French-Canadian,  and  an  exquisite  little  French 
lady,  not  more  than  sixteen — think  of  It — a  little 
sweet,  angel-faced  aide,  and  myself. 

Well,  these  were  the  patients: 

A  Welsh  boy,  a  handsome  young  fellow,  with 
double  fracture  and  leg  showing  signs  of  gan- 


62  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

grene;  a  Frenchman  over  in  one  corner,  whose 
trouble  I  do  not  know;  a  nigger  from  South  Af- 
rica with  shell  wounds  and  doing  fairly  well.  He 
had  not  spoken  one  word  since  he  entered  the 
hospital  the  week  before;  his  poor  little  barbaric 
language  could  not  be  understood  by  any  one 
near.  Then  a  pitiful  object,  to  whom  I  was  asked 
to  give  sips  of  water,  boasting  of  not  less  than 
five  wounds  in  his  legs ;  another  riddled  with  bul- 
lets and  a  fractured  arm  and  leg;  and  a  lieu- 
tenant from  Lyons  the  colour  of  an  orange,  his 
leg  amputated  in  the  middle  of  the  thigh.  Al- 
most as  soon  as  I  entered  the  room  he  asked  me 
if  I  was  French,  and  I  told  him  that  I  was  a 
Parisienne  just  to  comfort  him.  And  lastly, 
Thomas,  to  whom  we  owed  all  the  discomfort  of 
our  ward.  The  whole  of  his  left  side  was  gan- 
grened, and  he  had  been  there  a  week  in  that 
putrid,  dreadful  state — and  those  women  bore  it 
without  a  word.  During  the  day  he  said  to  me 
in  his  muffled  voice:  "I  lies  here,  trying  not  to 
give  no  trouble;  I  don't  call  no  one,  so  as  not 
to  disturb  these  ladies;  sometimes  I  think  I  am 
too  good.''  This,  of  course,  was  said  at  inter- 
vals, and,  he  added,  looking  at  the  head  nurse 
with  positive  adoration,  "I  jes'  loves  my  nurses." 
The  ward  was  beautifully  fitted,  of  course,  yet 
— it  seems  hard  to  believe — there  was  not  enough 
of  anything,  even  of  scissors  or  alcohol,  and  there 
was  only  one  pair  of  gloves  for  that  infected 
room.  I  am  going  to  take  a  supply  to-day,  if  they 
can  be  bought  in  Paris.  One  of  the  nurses  had 
a  newly-made  cut  on  her  arm;  she  was  impervi- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  62, 

ous  to  the  danger.  "You  must  be  careful,"  I 
said,  and  bound  up  her  arm  for  her;  and  she 
smiled  and  responded:  "Careful  In  this  room?" 
« — as  much  as  to  say.  It  is  fate  If  It  goes  wrong. 

I  think  Mrs.  Vanderbllt  put  me  in  there  to  see 
what  I  could  stand,  or  how  soon  she  could  get 
rid  of  me.  Naturally,  I  might  have  done  a  great 
deal  more  than  I  did.  If  it  had  been  even  a  sec- 
ond day,  but,  to  my  tremendous  surprise,  I  found 
myself  able  to  bear  a  very  great  deal.  I  assisted 
at  two  of  the  dressings  without  feeling  the  slight- 
est atom  of  nausea,  and  carried  away  pile  after 
pile  of  that  loathsome,  Infected  linen;  but  I  will 
not  go  Into  further  details,  for  what  Is  the  use? 

I  also  bandaged  one  of  the  men's  legs,  and  I 
could  not  sleep  last  night  for  fear  my  first  dress- 
ing might  have  slipped.  Heavens  1  if  I  should 
have  done  any  harm. 

Every  little  service  paid  so  richly.  Oh,  you 
would  never  dream  that  such  courage  could  exist, 
never!  Several  times  I  felt,  not  like  fainting, 
but  like  weeping  my  heart  out. 

We  had  Dr.  Blake  In  there,  four  or  five  Ameri- 
can doctors,  and  two  big  Frenchmen;  and,  nat- 
urally, it  was  terribly  Interesting,  only  one  must 
get  over  the  last  little  remnant  of  delicacy,  and 
have  one's  nerves  and  stomach  well  screwed  down. 
One  of  the  big  French  doctors  made  success- 
fully six  capital  wound  washings  and  dressings ; 
then  he  sat  down.  His  face  was  a  study.  I  said 
to  him,  "This  Is  my  debut,"  and  he  looked  at  me 
with  a  strange  smile.  "I  congratulate  you,"  he 
said,  "it  is  a  strong  beginning." 


64  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Nothing  affected  the  smell  in  that  room,  and 
all  the  way  home  last  night,  down  to  the  Palais 
Bourbon,  I  wondered  what  had  happened  to 
Paris,  for  I  could  not  get  It  out  of  my  nostrils. 
One  of  the  young  American  doctors,  however — 
who  deserves  a  decoration — brought  in  a  whole 
staff  of  men,  and  moved  poor  Thomas  out  of 
the  ward,  upstairs,  to  a  room  by  himself,  where 
he  ought  to  have  been  long  ago. 

Those  head  nurses  have  had  no  relief,  I  don't 
know  for  how  long.  What  Is  needed  here  Is — 
more  first-class  women.  There  are  lots  of  help- 
ers, but  the  big  women  are  needed.  Nowhere  In 
history  have  such  wounds  been  seen  as  the  Ger- 
mans Inflict,  and  this,  remember,  is  only  one  cor- 
ner of  one  hospital  In  this  stricken  city,  and  there 
are  all  the  provinces,  and  London,  and  Belgium, 
and  Russia,  and  Germany!  Heavens  I  it  makes 
your  brain  reel. 

One  touching  little  incident:  when  the  doctor 
was  dressing  one  of  the  worst  cases,  and  the  man 
was  screaming  terribly  (that,  I  assure  you,  was 
hard  to  bear),  the  Welsh  boy  leaned  over,  took 
his  glass  of  lemonade,  and  handed  It  to  me  with 
such  an  appealing  look:  "Give  him  this,'*  he 
said,  as  one  hurt  child  might  to  another ;  he  could 
not  bear  those  cries,  they  were  worse  than  battle. 

My  maid  came  in  to  me  the  other  day  and 
said,  with  a  smile  of  positive  joy,  "Isn't  it  per- 
fectly lovely.  Miss,  another  son  of  the  *Kayser' 
has  been  killed."  I  have  not  seen  a  woman  who 
would  not  tear  the  War  Lord  to  pieces  with  her 
own  hands,  and  I  could  begin  it  with  joy.    All  I 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  6s 

regret  is,  that  I  cannot  really  throw  myself  into 
that  work  up  there,  and  serve  and  help  as  those 
women  do.  I  never  could ;  it  is  not  in  me  to  love 
it,  and  I  think  that  the  profession  of  a  trained 
nurse  is  one  of  the  noblest,  most  superb  sacri- 
fices that  there  is.  There  is  a  whole  hospital  here 
on  the  Champs  Elysees  where  there  are  nothing 
but  women  doctors  and  surgeons  and  girl  scouts 
and  nurses.  I  must  say  I  am  glad  it  is  the  men 
who  are  sick,  and  not  the  women.  I  wish  we 
could  have  one  or  two  of  those  nurses  from  the 
American  ship  that  has  just  come  over. 

I  am  wondering  if,  perhaps,  when  I  get  back 
this  afternoon,  they  will  not  have  taken  me  out 
of  that  ward  and  set  me  to  making  tea  or  count- 
ing linen,  and  after  they  have  found  that  I  am 
good-for-nothing-at-all  anywhere,  then  I  shaU  dis- 
appear. 

To  Mrs.  Van  Forst,  Edgware,  England. 

American  Ambulance, 

Dearest  Mother,  n^^^^^^'  Paris,  oct.  15th. 

Day  after  day  goes  by  in  such  rapid  succes- 
sion now  that  one  loses  the  sense  of  time  as  never 
before,  and  I  am  glad  that  I  jotted  down  some 
first  impressions,  because  to  me,  as  to  others, 
they  will  soon  be  old  stories,  taking  their  place 
in  the  routine  of  life  and  losing  the  clear-cut  bril- 
liance of  novelty. 

I  was  taken  from  my  infected  ward  by  Mrs. 
Vanderbilt  to  another,  and  although  I  must  con- 
fess my  heart  ached  to  leave  those  women  with 
whom  I  had  already  begun  to  fraternise,  I  felt 


66  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

in  a  way  that  it  was  God's  mercy  that  I  got  out 
as  I  did.  I  speak  of  ''fraternising"  with  the 
nurses;  the  faces  of  all  those  who  had  begun  al- 
ready to  look  upon  me  as  a  friend  will  be  writ- 
ten for  years  in  my  mind  as  their  eyes  followed 
me  to  the  door.  I  held  back  and  said  to  Mrs. 
Vanderbilt,  "Oh,  please  leave  me  here." 

I  found  myself  in  Ward  63,  as  aide  to  the 
head  nurse — in  the  chic  room  of  the  hospital. 
Oh,  Heavens !  what  a  difference,  at  the  other  end 
of  the  wing  and  a  whole  corridor  away.  There 
the  atmosphere  was  almost  Paradise.  There 
were  four  English  officers  and  three  French — 
high-class  men,  two  of  them  just  about  going 
away — lucky  dogs!  I  won't  go  into  details  of 
these  little  wards,  where  all  the  ladies  come,  and 
where  superb  fruit  and  flowers  are  in  sight  all  the 
time. 

My  head  nurse  is  a  delicious  little  person,  a 
trained  nurse  for  thirty-three  years — think  of  it! 
— and  capability  itself;  she  is  very  sweet  to  me. 
Mrs.  Austin  is  with  her  in  the  morning,  and  I 
come  on  from  two  to  seven. 

I  will  just  give  you  the  salient  points: 

Captain  K.  is  a  handsome  young  man,  soft  and 
gentle  of  speech.  He  thinks  I  am  a  subordinate — 
I  do  not  know  why — and  treats  me  de  haut  en  has 
in  a  way  that  would  make  any  spoilt  American 
woman's  blood  boil,  but  it  just  amuses  me  to 
death. 

Next  to  him  is  a  gentle  lamb  of  a  French  boy, 
about  thirty.  I  wish  you  could  see  him,  with  his 
tanned   face  and  his  eager  eyes;   he  was  shot 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  67 

through  the  shoulder  and  arms,  and  all  he  cares 
for  at  all  Is  to  brush  his  teeth  about  forty  times 
every  second  and  be  clean  I  There  you  go  for 
dirty  Frenchmen,  and  he  was  as  clean  as  a  sheaf 
of  wheat  on  a  bright  summer's  day! 

During  the  day  I  got  Interested  in  a  young  lieu- 
tenant from  Guernsey,  who  had  gone  through  a 
severe  attack  of  appendicitis  on  the  field  and  been 
carried  off.  When  I  took  my  leave  that  night, 
the  head  nurse  said  that  the  boy  was  to  be  op- 
erated on  In  the  morning. 

I  had  never  seen  an  operation,  and  If  you  will' 
remember  the  state  I  was  in  last  winter  at  the 
Idea  of  their  cutting  you  up,  you  can  guess  how 
the  whole  thing  affects  me ;  but  as  I  returned  home 
last  evening  I  determined  that,  cost  what  It  would, 
I  was  going  to  stand  by  that  boy  for  his  own 
sake  and  for  the  sake  of  the  people  In  Guernsey 
who  do  not  know  where  he  is. 

Although  my  duties  do  not  begin  till  two,  I  was 
at  the  hospital  at  eight  In  the  morning,  and  asked 
Dr.  Blake  as  he  came  In  If  I  could  assist  at  the 
operation  on  Lieutenant  C. 

On  my  arrival  in  my  ward,  I  saw  Lieut.  C. 
being  pushed  out  on  the  rolling  chair,  accom- 
panied by  an  orderly.  At  first  we  went  Into  the 
big  antechamber.  (Everything  at  the  hospital 
here  is  on  a  large  scale  and  perfectly  appointed.) 
.  .  .  I  talked  to  him  about  all  kinds  of  things, 
and  went  out  for  a  second  to  get  him  a  blanket. 
As  I  did  so,  the  doctor  of  my  old  infected  ward 
was  speaking  to  one  of  the  surgeons  in  the  cor- 
ridor.    *'Can't  you  operate  on  him  at  once?"  I! 


68  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

heard  him  ask.  "It  is  hemorrhage,  and  he  can- 
not last  if  you  don*t."  Then  they  rolled  in  poor 
Charlie  Hern,  the  boy  from  my  first  ward — the 
Welshman  who  wanted  to  give  his  lemonade  to 
his  friend.  It  was  horrible,  that  is  the  only  word 
for  it.  In  four  days  he  had  gone  down  to  death. 
His  condition  was  so  appalling  that  I  am  not 
going  to  describe  it  to  you,  and  I  did  not  dare  to 
approach  him  as  he  was  one  mass  of  infection, 
and  my  boy  by  whom  I  stood  was  so  clean;  but 
I  smiled  at  Charlie,  and  he  looked  at  me  and 
knew  me,  and  I  felt  as  I  went  into  the  next  room 
by  the  side  of  C.  that  I  was  deserting  a  ship  go- 
ing down  in  the  storm. 

It  took  a  long  while  to  get  the  young  lieutenant 
under  the  influence  of  an  anaesthetic,  he  was  so 
strong  and  so  normal.  Without  the  slightest 
feeling  of  emotion  other  than  interest,  I  watched 
Dr.  Blake  operate  from  beginning  to  end.  Right 
out  of  a  clear  sky  as  one  might  walk  in  from  the 
street,  with  no  preparation,  I  saw  the  whole 
thing!  It  was  a  very  bad  operation,  as  the  ap- 
pendix lay  well  up  under  the  peritoneum.  There 
were  seven  doctors  watching  Dr.  Blake,  who  is 
a  perfect  marvel,  and,  as  we  stood  there,  Charlie 
Hern's  frail  barque  had  touched  the  Port,  and 
when  we  came  out  again  they  had  taken  him 
away. 

That  afternoon  one  of  our  empty  beds  was 
filled  by  a  Marine  Commandant — a  man  of  sixty, 
who  had  one  foot  amputated  and  the  other  leg 
shot,  so  you  can  imagine  his  condition,  if  you  like. 
Whilst  they  dressed  his  amputated  foot  he  held 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  69 

both  my  hands  in  his  big  grip,  trying  not  to  scream 
aloud. 

Well,  I  can  stand  it,  I  have  proved  that;  and 
I  must  tell  you  that  there  Is  a  great  fascination 
in  It  all.  There  are  Interminable  walks  from  my 
ward  to  the  far  kitchen,  walks  that  take  me 
through  both  the  principal  wards  In  which  there 
are  at  least  two  hundred  patients.  Even  those 
walks  have  become  a  sort  of  distraction — think  of 
it!  One  of  the  nurses  wears  a  pedometer,  and 
yesterday  she  found  that  she  had  walked  twenty 
kilometres  during  the  way.  « 

Now  I  want  to  speak  of  Vera  Arkwright,  who 
replaced  me  in  the  gangrene  ward.  She  Is  per- 
fectly beautiful,  full  of  sympathy  and  sweetness, 
and  a  warm  friend  of  Bridget  Guinness.  I  got 
her  into  the  hospital  with  a  vague  feeling  that 
she  was  simply  going  to  flirt  with  the  officers  and 
perhaps  make  me  regret.  Well,  well!  Vera  has 
been  in  that  ward  now  from  eight  in  the  morn- 
ing until  half-past  six  every  night.  I  wish  you 
could  see  her — with  crimson  cheeks  and  a  floating 
veil,  carrying  the  vilest  of  linen  and  oilcloth — 5 
not  to  throw  away,  but  to  wash  It  herself  with  a 
scrubbing  brush.  She  has  a  keen  sense  of  hu- 
mour, and  even  amid  the  horrors  it  shines  forth. 

Yesterday  she  was  heartbroken  over  Hern,  and 
told  me  that  the  bullet  In  one  of  his  wounds  had 
severed  a  vein,  and  when  she  came  in  on  duty 
this  terrible  hemorrhage  had  flooded  the  bed  and 
the  floor,  and  it  was  she  who  cleaned  all  that  up. 
Yes,  and  she  gathered  up  his  little  treasures  to 


70  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

save  for  his  people,  and  going  into  the  linen  room, 
from  under  all  the  filthy  bandages  extracted  the 
poor  little  tin  cigarette  case  which  had  been 
thrown  out  as  rubbish. 

Last  night,  at  half-past  ten,  my  bell  rang,  and 
poor  Vera  blew  In  asking  for  a  morsel  of  food, 
as  when  she  came  out  from  duty  every  restau- 
rant in  Paris  was  shut.  So  my  maid  and  I  fed 
her  up  and  sent  her  home.  She  certainly  Is  a 
brick,  and  Glory  Hancock,  If  she  comes,  will  be 
another. 

Don't  think  for  a  moment  that  this  same  thing 
is  not  going  on  everywhere;  only  not  everybody 
has  time  to  make  pictures  of  it. 

In  one  of  the  big  wards  there  is  a  little  Spahi 
from  Morocco,  black  as  coal.  He  has  a  bayonet 
wound  and  cannot  live.  He  wants  some  of  his 
own  Morocco  food  and  what  it  is,  God  knows, 
but,  of  course,  he  cannot  explain,  and  the  sweet 
little  girl  who  Is  taking  care  of  him  told  me  that 
he  is  just  as  cross  as  he  can  be,  and  waves  her 
away  every  time  she  comes  near  with  his  black 
hands,  saying:  'Tas  ga,  pas  ga.'*  He  calls  the 
head  nurse,  *'Mamma,"  and  will  only  eat  when 
she  feeds  him. 

One  man  told  me  that  he  lay  wounded  in  the 
arm  for  two  days,  his  companions  on  each  side 
shot  under  his  eyes ;  then,  alone,  he  dragged  him- 
self across  the  field  to  the  ambulance.  He  will 
never  go  back  either  to  England  or  the  field — 
his  fields  are  farther  on,  and,  God  knows,  dearly 
won! 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  71 

Another  has  been  twelve  days  In  the  trenches, 
with  the  dead  and  dying  on  every  side. 

Best  love, 

M. 


To  Miss  Anna  Lusk,  New  York, 

Dear  Anna, 

The  days  will  soon  begin  to  repeat  themselves, 
and  I  will  continue  to  note,  whilst  they  still  have 
colour  to  me,  various  scenes  In  the  hospital. 

I  am  In  my  snobbish  and  select  ward.  Would 
you  ever  believe  that  I  could  make  a  good  trained 
nurse  ?  Never.  Well,  I  am  a  bully  trained  nurse ! 
You  cannot  hear  me  move  about  that  ward — 
not  a  sound.  I  don't  think  I  have  dropped  a  thing 
since  I  went  Into  the  hospital,  and  I've  never  for- 
gotten anything,  and  I  am  sure  that  pedometer 
would  have  registered  17  kilometres  on  me  to- 
day, for  the  head  nurse  doesn't  mind  sending  me 
up  and  down  those  interminable  stairs  to  that 
diet  kitchen,  and  Heaven  knows  where  not!  with 
great  big  Iron  brocs  full  of  hot  and  cold  water, 
and  I  never  show  the  slightest  sign  of  having 
too  much  of  the  job.  I  can  do  all  the  tricks  and 
stunts  now  pretty  clearly,  lift  them  up  In  bed, 
wash  them  and  comb  them,  and,  you  know,  I 
am  a  very  good  masseuse.  The  thing  that  has 
surprised  me  most  of  all  Is  that  It  does  not  make 
me  nervous  or  restless,  and,  honestly,  not  even 
very  tired.  I  went  on  to-day  at  twelve  and  came 
off  at  6.30,  and,  after  a  hot  bath,  here  I  am  sit- 


72  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

ting,  fresh  as  a  daisy,  except  for  my  feet  which 
are  a  little  bit  tired. 

Thank  God,  there  are  convalescents  in  this 
ward,  some  going  to  England,  some  to  recuperate 
at  Versailles,  and  some  back  to  the  Front. 

Into  our  ward  three  days  ago  was  brought,  oh, 
such  a  wonderful  old  man — a  magnificent,  rugged 
Commandant,  K.C.B.,  pilot  of  the  naval  aero- 
planes. Only  four  days  ago  he  was  rushing  in 
his  motor,  with  his  young  son,  who  was  on  the 
Staff,  across  these  scarred  and  dreadful  fields  and 
roads.  In  the  night  they  drove  against  some  ob- 
stacle, their  motor  was  overturned,  and  they  were 
imprisoned  under  it.  The  General  came  to  his 
senses  to  find  that  he  could  not  move  and  his 
son  was  groaning  near  him.  In  order  to  free 
himself  to  get  to  his  boy,  he  tried  to  cut  off  his 
own  foot,  but  failed,  and  lay  waiting  till  morn- 
ing, when  he  was  found,  and  taken  to  the  nearest 
ambulance  where  his  foot  was  amputated;  and 
now  he  lies  here  maimed  for  ever,  with  his  other 
leg  fractured  from  thigh  to  ankle.  Of  course, 
his  agony  has  been  terrible.  His  greatest  anx- 
iety at  first  was  that  they  should  find  his  gold 
monocle  which  he  had  dropped  when  he  was 
wounded,  poor  darling!  When  they  did  find  it, 
he  looked  so  smart  and  so  pathetic  lying  there; 
and  then  his  aides  came  in,  and  he  gave  them  mi- 
nute directions  how  to  make  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments in  London,  so  that  when  he  could  stump 
about  on  his  foot,  and  his  leg  got  well,  he  could 
go  on  flying.  Think  of  it  I  His  spirit  had  not 
lost  its  wings,  at  any  rate.    His  son  lay  wounded 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  73 

in  another  hospital  here,  and  he  wanted  news  of 
him,  and  he  was  dead!  Well,  yesterday,  after 
they  had  dressed  his  dreadful  wound,  I  saw  the 
orderly  tell  him.  The  Commandant  never  said 
one  single  word,  he  just  lay  there,  that  monocle 
staring  into  the  room.  Then  they  left  him  alone. 
Is  not  human  nature  strange?  That  virile  officer 
who  screamed  when  they  dressed  his  leg,  and 
clung  to  a  woman^s  hands,  never  turned  a  hair 
or  wept  a  tear  when  they  told  him  that  his  only 
boy  lay  dead!  He  was  too  proud  to  show  his 
grief  in  the  hospital  ward,  surrounded  by  junior 
officers,  and  never  will  I  forget  the  silhouette 
of  that  finely  cut  face — he  looks  a  little  like  Nel- 
son— and  the  high-piled  bedclothes  over  that  dis- 
figured body.  Well,  his  wife  came  presently.  She 
had  hurried  from  England  to  her  mutilated  hus- 
band and  had  just  heard  this  crushing  news.  I 
put  the  screens  around  them ;  I  gave  her  the  eter- 
nal cup  of  tea,  and  left  them  quiet  and  controlled. 
The  English  are  certainly  wonderful.  That  was 
yesterday;  In  our  presence  he  has  not  shed  a  tear. 

I  like  him  best  of  anybody  In  the  ward — ^better 
even  than  my  little  blonde  French  officer,  whom 
I  massaged  with  alcohol,  and  my  appendicitis 
boy. 

The  Commandant  said  to  me  to-day,  "Are 
you  *MarIe  Van  Vorst'?"  and  I  said,  "Yes." 
Then  he  said:  "I  have  read  your  books,'*  and 
that  sounded  strange;  but  the  strangest  thing  of 
all  was  when  his  wife  came  again  and  suggested 
fetching  some  little  delicacy,  he  said  very  firmly, 
"Never  mind,  my  dear,  I  am  In  the  hands  of 


74  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

professionals,  and  I  do  not  want  any  amateur 
affairs;'*  and  he  said  to  me  very  feelingly, 
"Amateur  nurses  are  all  very  well,  but  when  you 
have  professional  care  like  this  it  spoils  you  for 
anything  else." 

Now  what  can  I  say  more?  Don't  you  think 
I  have  won  my  spurs?  I  smiled  feebly,  and  did 
not  give  myself  away. 

One  can  help  in  a  thousand  ways — and  the  men 
are  so  wonderful,  the  Americans  there,  who  have 
given  their  services  to  do  the  most  menial  and 
dreadful  offices  for  these  men.  You  see  bankers 
and  men  that  you  have  seen  In  society,  in  their 
white  uniforms,  bending  over  the  sick,  running 
miles  for  the  needful  offices,  and  oh,  so  kind  and 
so  useful! 

Over  the  sofa  in  my  little  study  that  I  love 
so  much  is  an  enormous  war  map  now,  and  Its 
history  will  take  Its  place  with  many  other  memo- 
ries In  this  room;  and  outside  the  windows  are 
the  English  and  French  and  Belgian  flags. 

I  am  prepared  every  day  to  be  thrown  out  of 
my  smart  ward,  and  if  I  have  to  go  back  to  that 
charnel  house  I  hope  that  God  will  give  me  grace. 
Vera  said  to-day,  *'It  Is  discouraging  to  work  for 
people  whom  you  know  will  all  be  dead  in  a 
week."  You  rememljer  in  the  Roman  games  how 
the  gladiators  used  to  cry,  "Ave  Csesar,  those 
who  are  about  to  die  greet  you."  So  those  poor 
creatures  seem  to  salute  the  country  for  which 
they  have  fought,  and  surely  we  can  help  them 
as  they  go. 

My  lieutenant  with  the  amputated  leg  in  the 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  75 

other  ward  has  gone  to-day.  That  is  four  out  of 
that  infected  ward,  and  three  nurses  are  sick  in 
bed  with  violent  fever  from  it.  Yet  Vera  is  go- 
ing on  like  a  house  on  fire  at  her  job.  The  poor 
lieutenant  died  as  she  was  feeding  him,  and  that 
girl  did  all  the  solemn  and  dreadful  offices  for 
him.     She  is  wonderful. 

The  other  day  I  was  lunching  at  Larue's  in 
my  uniform,  when  a  gentleman  turned  to  me  and 
asked:  *'Could  you  use  ten  ambulance  automo- 
biles?" Well,  I  have  never  seen  the  time  yet 
when  I  could  not  use  what  was  offered  me.  As 
we  had  been  saying  that  very  day,  if  the  wounded 
could  only  be  brought  to  us  direct  from  the  firing 
line,  without  this  heart-rending  transportation 
in  cattle  trains,  herded  together,  we  might  stand 
less  chance  of  gangrene  and  save  more  lives.  I 
said,  *'0f  course  I  can  use  the  ambulance  motors, 
and  if  you  will  give  them  to  me,  with  the  drivers, 
and  all  in  perfect  order  for  the  field  I  will  guaran- 
tee their  proper  use." 

I  have  been  mad  for  an  automobile  for  years, 
I  have  almost  prayed  for  one.  I  certainly  have 
wished  for  one  on  every  haystack,  but  I  didn't 
know  that  I  was  going  to  have  ten,  and  I  don't 
think  I  prayed  for  quite  this  kind. 

Events  and  impressions  crowd  thick  and  fast 
in  these  days,  and  if  I  don't  write  immediately 
the  contour  and  the  outline  is  lost. 

I  close  with  love, 

Marie. 


76  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

To  Miss  B.  S,  Andrews,  N.  Y. 

Dearest  Belle, 

One  wonders  if  one  has  forgotten  how  to  feel 
and  how  to  suffer,  because  it  seems  strange  to 
go  on  existing  when  on  all  sides  the  horror  and 
the  agony  is  so  intense.  To  people  living  their 
normal  and  calm  lives  in  countries  as  yet  un- 
touched by  these  cataclysms,  the  words  "battle'* 
and  "death"  have  only  the  usual  significance. 
They  cannot,  even  remotely,  suffer  with  us — or,  I 
should  say,  with  them,  for  I  suppose  that  you  will 
retort  to  me  that  they  are  not  my  own  people. 
Even  down  here  in  the  little  coast  countries,  life 
goes  on  more  or  less  as  it  did,  and  even  London 
pursues  the  tenor  of  its  way.  Paris,  too,  is  more 
normal,  and  yet  within  a  few  miles  is  all  that  con- 
glomerate suffering,  and  that  long-drawn-out  hor- 
ror. 

You  will  forgive  me  if  I  speak  of  my  own  sex. 
Later  on,  I  suppose,  will  be  told  more  fully  what 
they  are  doing  in  this  war.  They  are  wonderful 
— ^wonderful  indeed,  in  every  rank.  The  patience 
and  the  dignity  of  these  French  women  at  home, 
of  those  who  have  their  own  sous-le-feu,  as  they 
call  it,  awakens  a  never-ending  admiration.  The 
quiet  industry  that  continues  without  any  appar- 
ent change,  only  the  resigned  faces  and  the  sud- 
den flashing  of  the  eyes  as  you  ask  them :  "Have 
you  any  one  at  the  firing  line?"  The  question 
tells. 

Then  the  women  who  are  nursing  the  wounded 
everywhere,  and  yet,  enormous  as  that  response 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  77 

IS,  It  Is  not  great  enough;  the  need,  the  call,  Is 
far  reaching  and  tremendous.  I  have  always 
thought  well  of  the  women,  but  never  so  well  as 
I  do  now. 

And  those  women  of  my  own  class,  those  who 
have  not  the  scientific  training,  nothing  but  their 
natural  aptitude  and  their  beautiful  tenderness, 
they  are  lessons  Indeed.  You  see  them  every- 
where. Groups  of  nuns  have  come  back  to  Paris 
now  that  banishment  seems  forgotten,  and  you  see 
them  In  their  pretty  dresses  in  the  streets  going 
to  take  up  their  service,  and  at  these  sinister  rail- 
road stations,  where  they  hover  like  ministering 
birds  from  one  dreadful  shed  to  another.  And 
the  women  In  their  snow-white  dresses,  and  their 
white  coifs  with  the  Red  Cross;  ladies  and  pro- 
fessionals ministering  everywhere.  I  do  not 
think  you  realise  how  truly  they  are  risking  their 
lives ;  many  of  them  have  been  killed.  The  Brit- 
ish and  the  French  Red  Cross  have  quite  a  list 
of  those  shot  upon  the  battlefield.  Intentionally 
and  by  accident;  others  whom  shells  have  killed 
at  their  duty;  others  who  have  died  of  fever 
already — and  yet  the  need  Is  unmet  and  over- 
whelming. These  English  women  of  station  and 
position  are  doing  magnificent  work,  all  of 
them. 

Robert's  brother-in-law  has  had  30,000  wound- 
ed this  month  pass  under  his  hand — a  thousand 
a  day  for  a  month — and  while  he  was  selecting 
from  those  maimed  and  ghastly  files  those  who 
were  to  go  on  and  those  who  were  to  remain 
behind,  they  came  to  tell  him  that  his  only  son 


78  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

had  fallen.  He  went  on  with  his  pitiful  work, 
and  then  his  wife  and  he  together  took  the  train 
for  the  distant  battlefield,  where  his  boy  was 
buried.  They  disinterred  him  and  the  father  put 
that  poor  body  on  some  straw  in  a  cart  and  drove 
with  it  eight  miles,  holding  meanwhile  his  son's 
dead  hand  in  his,  and  they  buried  him  in  a  little 
country  churchyard  until  after  the  war. 

All  day  long  before  this  station — Juvisy — these 
trains  pass.  They  have  been  packed  in  them 
like  sardines,  with  every  kind  of  ghastly  wound. 
When  there  are  two  million  men  fighting,  within 
a  hundred  miles,  on  one  side  and  three  million 
on  the  other,  there  are  a  good  many  wounded 
to  be  taken  care  of.  Try  to  think  a  little  of  it  as 
it  stands,  and  not  as  you  read  about  it  in  the 
papers.  Then  try  to  realise  the  way  the  women 
feel  over  here,  and  also  try  to  realise  that,  when 
you  are  told  they  are  nursing  the  wounded,  they 
are  not  doing  it  from  any  motive  but  one  of  hu- 
man tenderness — to  impute  to  them  anything  else 
is  singularly  obtuse,  to  say  nothing  else. 

I  can  understand  how  one  must  be  **fed  up" 
with  the  war  when  one  is  of  none  of  the  coun- 
tries that  are  fighting,  and  that  the  same  vivid 
interest  cannot  be  taken  in  it;  but  what  is  one  to 
write  about  from  over  here?  You  see,  the  shops 
are  closed,  there  is  no  commerce;  every  woman 
you  see  has  all  she  loves  either  directly  affected 
by  this  tragedy  or  else  at  the  Front;  therefore 
life  is  not  normal  with  us.  So  you  must  try  to 
understand  the  pitch  at  which  we  are  living,  and 
if  we  seem  egoists  in  the  way  we  suffer  for  the 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  79 

convulsed  nations,  you  must  forgive.  You  see, 
we  cannot  grasp  American  Interests  either  now,  it 
takes  so  long  to  get  news  and  the  papers  have 
none. 

There  are  beautiful  things  to  see  here.  In  the 
first  place,  the  weather  continues  to  be  divine, 
summer-like,  and  exquisite,  and  there  are  pic- 
turesque groups  everywhere.  Of  the  flowers  there 
are  chrysanthemums  of  varied  and  sombre  hue, 
and  there  Is  a  quantity  of  fruit  In  the  streets,  and 
the  colours  are  rich  and  delicious.  And  there  are 
constant  processions  of  military  funerals — poor 
and  rich  alike,  burying  their  glorious  dead. 

Yours  always, 

M. 


Mrs.  H.  C.  Van  Forst,  Edgware,  England. 

Oct.  15. 

My  dear  Mother, 

I  wish  I  had  the  power  to  describe  the  Auber- 
vllliers  Station  as  I  saw  It  to-day.  I  went  with 
the  American  ambulances  early  in  the  morning 
through  the  crowded  Paris  streets  to  this  big  sta-. 
tlon,  where  they  select  from  the  trains  of  wound- 
ed those  who  are  to  come  to  Paris.  The  station, 
some  few  miles  from  the  city.  Is  fenced  off  and 
guarded  by  Reservists  In  red  trousers  and  blue 
coats.  Here  are  a  corps  of  military  doctors  who 
receive  the  long  lines  of  trains  from  the  north 
bringing  In  their  ghastly  loads,  and  these  loads 
are  ghastly  enough,  God  knows !  Only  the  desper- 


8o  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

ate  cases  are  taken  out,  those  whom  a  few  miles 
more  would  finish  for  ever. 

We  run  our  ambulance  into  line  and  climb 
down  into  the  courtyard  full  of  slightly  wounded 
men  waiting  to  be  transported  to  other  parts  of 
France.  Along  the  platforms  are  ranged  a  row 
of  neat  tents — two  of  them  booty  taken  from  the 
Germans.  One  is  a  little  operating-room,  another 
a  dressing-room,  the  third  a  kitchen  with  quanti- 
ties of  good  things.  Then  there  is  a  tent  for  the 
dead,  one  for  the  dying,  and  one  for  those  who 
are  to  be  given  a  few  hours  of  repose  before  being 
sent  on  to  the  provinces,  and  in  front  of  those 
mobile  houses,  waiting  for  the  trains,  are  the 
women  nurses — knitting,  reading,  resting,  quiet 
and  dignified,  and  with  that  look  that  all  women 
wear  here  now — of  patience  and  strength. 

Among  those  little  groups  of  wounded  are  sev- 
eral whose  good  fortune  it  is  to  be  Parisian,  and 
who  have  been  permitted  to  see  their  wives  and 
families.  I  saw  one  of  these  meetings.  She  came 
hurrying  along,  a  little  woman  of  the  people,  with 
her  market  basket  on  her  arm,  breathless,  eager, 
and  her  husband  whom  she  had  not  seen  since  the 
beginning  of  the  war  stood  waiting  for  her.  He 
had  only  a  slight  injury.  She  flew  to  his  arms 
and  he  was  able  to  embrace  her  and  lead  her 
away. 

In  the  big  station  itself  all  picturesqueness  is 
lost.  There  is  nothing  but  odour,  flies,  mosqul- 
toes,  and  crowds  upon  crowds  of  beds. 

The  room  apart  is  in  semi-darkness,  and  there 
must  be  250  beds  there,  and  all  full.    There  are 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  8i 

wounded  Turcos  from  Algeria,  there  are  black 
Soudanese  from  the  peaceful  sands  of  the  Upper 
Nile,  there  are  Frenchmen,  there  are  English. 
They  wear  still  the  field  bandages,  put  on  in  some 
cases  by  Red  Cross  First  Aides  under  fire.  We 
want  some  of  these  badly  wounded  men,  and  we 
say  so,  and  we  get  two  of  them — shattered, 
maimed,  half-conscious.  They  are  carried  into  our 
khaki-covered  ambulance  and  carefully  placed  on 
the  stretchers,  and  we  are  off  with  them  over  the 
road  we  travelled  before — this  time  at  a  reduced 
speed;  back  again  through  Paris,  and  beyond  the 
gates. 

Yesterday  I  went  to  a  very  long  and  trying  op- 
eration, and  the  little  soldier  who  underwent  it 
was  so  thin  and  small  that  I  could  almost  have 
lifted  him  from  the  stretcher  to  the  operating 
table  without  any  help.  A  woman  doctor  gave 
the  anaesthetic,  a  fine  Brooklyn  woman. 

You  will  be  interested  to  know  that  my  Com- 
mandant has  gone  to  England.  I  helped  to  put 
him  in  the  ambulance  to-day  that  drives  him  to 
Rouen.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him  lying 
there,  so  dignified  and  patient,  with  his  naval  cap 
jauntily  on  his  head,  his  single  eyeglass  in  his  eye, 
and  those  poor  helpless  limbs!  He  came  to 
France  alert,  agile,  full  of  manly  interest  and 
power,  with  his  son,  a  member  of  the  General 
Staff;  and  he  goes  back  to  England  a  cripple  for 
life  and  his  son  a  glorious  name,  that  is  all ! 

Bessie's  experiences  at  Toul  have  been  interest- 
ing.    Twenty-five  days  she  was  there,  in  a  tiny 


82  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

country  hotel,  the  only  civilian  woman  in  the  place 
' — ^permitted  to  remain  solely  because  she  was  so 
gentle  and  unassuming;  hidden  in  the  different 
rooms,  when  the  police  made  their  visits,  by  the 
landlady,  who  adored  her.  There  was  neither 
butter  nor  milk;  the  food  was  almost  uneatable; 
she  went  to  bed  in  her  clothes ;  she  knitted  fifteen 
mufflers,  over  twenty  yards  of  woollen  goods,  and 
learned  the  Bible  by  heart  in  chapters.  She  had 
no  books,  could  write  and  receive  no  letters ;  could 
not  go  to  the  hospital  to  visit  the  sick;  and  the 
wounded  came  in  like  a  crimson  flood  from  the 
trenches — thousands  upon  thousands,  a  pitiful 
spectacle  in  that  fourteenth  century  town.  And 
the  beautiful  little  mediaeval  church  in  the  shadow 
of  the  October  evening  at  Vespers — one  half  of 
the  church  filled  with  soldiers,  the  other  with  the 
villagers,  most  of  them  mourning  for  their  dead; 
and  without,  the  birds,  brushing  their  wings 
against  the  old  window-panes;  and  the  tolling  of 
the  mellow  bell,  and  the  elevation  of  the  Host  in 
the  misty  light  at  the  altar  above  those  heads, 
many  of  them  to  be  bowed  so  shortly  in  an  eternal 
submission. 

She  only  saw  Robert  for  an  hour  at  lunch  time. 
During  those  weeks  he  slept  in  a  cellar  on  bags 
containing  apples  and  pears,  with  his  son's  leaden 
coffin  by  his  side.  He  had  been  obliged  to  order 
it  the  first  day  he  came  to  Toul,  and  slept  beside 
It  all  the  time.  Think  of  that  ghastly  experience  I 
And  toward  the  end  the  boy  asked  his  father  to 
read  him  fairy  tales,  and  only  to  read  the  ones 
that  ended  happily;  so,  hour  after  hour,  he  told 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  83 

him  children's  stories  without  end.  He  says  that 
his  son  never  spoke  of  France  once  until  his  last 
day  on  earth;  then  he  turned  to  his  father  and 
said:  "Elle  est  plus  grande,  la  France?"  And 
then  "Combien  de  metres  carres?'' — meaning  how 
many  feet  have  the  soldiers  gained — and  closed 
his  life  saying :    "EUe  est  plus  grande.'* 

Robert  Le  Roux,  jun.,  made  a  brave  and  beau- 
tiful military  career.  He  had  charge  of  a  regi- 
ment and  led  his  men  up  a  slope.  The  contingent 
knew  before  they  started  that  they  had  been  sent 
out  to  deceive  the  enemy  and  that  their  charge 
meant  death.  It  was  as  heroic  an  effort  as  could 
be  conceived.  They  had  to  go  up  the  hill  on  their 
bellies,  dragging  their  guns,  and  when  young  R. 
saw  that  they  hesitated  to  advance,  he  stood  up 
in  the  full  fire  and  told  his  men  that  if  they  did 
not  advance  he  would  go  up  on  foot — which  meant 
to  certain  and  immediate  death.  Then  they 
moved,  and  he  shook  them  by  the  shoulders  and 
called  to  them,  encouraging  them  to  go  on.  He 
was  shot  whilst  giving  a  glass  of  water  to  his 
Commander,  who  was  mortally  wounded,  and  he 
lay  on  the  field  for  hours.  One  of  his  soldiers, 
who  had  been  a  rascally  fellow  and  difficult  to  deal 
with,  came  crawling  up  to  him  and  tried  to  drag 
his  superior  officer  out  of  the  firing  line,  but  R. 
made  him  go  back.  You  know  the  rest  of  the 
story — how  he  was  finally  carried  out  because  an 
unknown  voice  from  the  battlefield  said:  "Take 
that  one,  he  is  engaged  to  be  married."  In  the 
hospital,     where     there     were     seven     hundred 


84  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

wounded  and  only  three  nurses,  he  lay  for  six 
days  without  having  his  human  wants  attended 
to,  and  you  can  imagine  the  state  his  father  found 
him  in. 

There  have  been  some  appealing  and  terribly 
funny  negroes  from  the  Soudan  in  the  hospital. 
It  took  four  men  to  hold  one  poor  fellow  in  bed 
whilst  his  dreadful  wounds  were  dressed.  Finally 
he  covered  each  wound  with  both  his  hands  and 
prayed  over  them,  and  when  his  prayer,  his  queer, 
uncouth  prayer  was  finished,  he  then  allowed  the 
doctor  to  dress  the  wound.  I  am  glad  to  say  that 
the  surgeon  was  patient  enough  to  spend  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  over  this  single  barbarian 
brought  from  so  far  to  suffer  so  much  in  the  land 
of  culture  and  civilisation. 

Devotedly  your  daughter, 

M. 


To  Miss  Anna  Lusk,  New  York. 

Paris,  Nov.  7th,  19 14. 

Dear  Anna, 

In  the  contemplation  of  the  great  griefs  of 
those  who  have  lost  their  own,  of  those  who 
have  given  their  all;  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
bravest  country  in  the  world — Belgium — ravaged 
from  frontier  to  frontier,  laid  barren  and  waste, 
smoked,  ruined,  devastated  and  scarred  by  whole- 
sale massacre  of  civilian  women  and  children,  our 
hearts  have  been  crushed.  Our  souls  have  been 
appaUed  by  the  burdens  of  others,  and  by  the 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  85 

future  problems  of  Belgium,  not  to  speak  of  one 
quarter  of  France.  Much  of  the  north  has  been 
wiped  out,  and  the  stories  of  individual  suffering 
and  insults  too  terrible  to  dwell  upon,  you  will 
say. 

One  of  my  old  clerks  in  the  Bon  Marche  has 
had  his  little  nephew  come  back  to  him  from 
Germany — a  peaceful  young  middle-class  man 
pursuing  his  studies  in  a  German  town — with  both 
his  hands  cut  off ! 

The  other  day  in  the  Gare  du  Nord,  waiting 
for  a  train,  there  was  a  stunning  Belgian  officer 
— not  a  private — he  was  a  captain  in  one  of  the 
crack  regiments.  His  excitement  was  terrible,  he 
was  almost  beside  himself  with  anguish  and  with 
anger.  In  a  little  village  he  had  seen  one  woman 
violated  by  seven  Germans  in  the  presence  of 
her  husband;  then  the  husband  shot,  the  woman 
shot,  and  her  little  baby  cut  in  four  pieces  on  a 
butcher's  block.  You  can  hardly  call  this  the 
common  course  of  war.  He  was  a  Belgian  gentle- 
man, and  I  should  consider  this  a  document  of 
truth. 

But  there  are  so  many  that  I  cannot  prolong, 
and  will  not — what  is  the  use?  Every  now  and 
then  a  people  needs  to  be  wiped  off  the  face  of  the 
earth,  or  a  contingent  blotted  out  that  a  newer 
and  finer  civilisation  shall  prevail.  Certainly  this 
is  the  case  with  Germany.  They  say  here  that 
the  Emperor  and  Crown  Prince  will  be  tried  by 
law  and  sentenced  to  death  as  common  criminals, 
the  Emperor  as  a  murderer  and  the  Crown  Prince 
as  a  robber,  for  his  goods  trains  were  stacked  with 


86  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

booty  and  loot.  Think  of  it,  a  Prince!  Every- 
where the  Germans  pass  they  leave  their  filthy 
insults  behind  them,  in  the  beautiful  chateaux  and 
in  the  delicate  rooms  of  the  French  women — the 
indications  of  their  passing,  not  deeds  of  noble 
heroism  that  can  be  told  of  foes  as  well  as  of 
friends,  but  filthy  souvenirs  of  the  passing  of 
creatures  for  whom  the  word  "barbarian"  is  too 
mild! 

Here  is  a  more  spiritual  picture. 

Robert  Le  Roux,  jun.,  was  buried  yesterday. 
You  will  have  read  in  the  previous  pages  here  the 
story  of  his  exploits  on  the  battlefield — the  closing 
of  his  young  life  in  bravely  leading  his  troops  up 
the  hill  to  certain  death.  And  yesterday  I  went 
to  St.  Germain  to  his  funeral. 

We  left  Paris  at  eight  o'clock  to  go  to  St. 
Germain,  which,  in  normal  times,  takes  thirty-five 
minutes ;  yesterday  it  took  us  two  hours  by  train. 

France  and  Paris  now  are  sacred.  Even  the 
station  of  St.  Lazare,  so  often  marked  with  part- 
ings for  America,  sunderings  and  farewells  on  one 
side,  and  then  happy  returns  after  months  of 
work.  St.  Lazare  station  has  for  me  a  particular 
individuality,  and  you  know  they  call  that  big 
stone  waiting  room  there  the  "Salle  des  pas  per- 
dus," — "The  room  of  lost  footsteps,''  and  it  will 
seem  to  me  to  echo  always  the  footsteps  of  those 
soldiers  who  have  gone. 

We  knitted  in  the  train  our  woollen  comforters 
for  the  soldiers,  and  read  the  war  news  and  talked. 
The  last  time  I  had  seen  young  Robert  he  was  a 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  87 

little  boy,  in  short  breeches  and  socks.  His  mother 
brought  him  to  Versailles  and  he  played  with  us 
in  the  garden  there — a  strong,  splendid  looking 
young  French  boy.  Now  I  was  going  to  his  fu- 
neral, and  he  was  engaged  to  be  married,  with  all 
his  hopes  before  him,  and  on  this  same  train  was 
his  little  fiancee,  in  her  long  crepe  veil,  broken- 
hearted; and  his  little  sister,  and  the  father,  who 
had  followed  his  son's  campaign  with  such  ardour 
and  such  tenderness;  and  his  uncle.  Dr.  D.,  of 
whom  I  spoke  previously — the  splendid  sergeant- 
major  whose  only  son  had  just  been  killed  by  the 
enemy.  A  train  of  sorrow  I — and  only  one  of  so 
many,  so  many. 

The  church  at  St.  Germain  is  simple  and  very 
old.  The  doors  were  all  hung  with  heavy  snow- 
white  cloth,  and  before  the  door  stood  the  funeral 
car  drawn  by  white  horses,  all  in  white,  and  in- 
stead of  melancholy  hearse  plumes  there  were 
bunches  of  flags,  and  over  all  hung  the  November 
mist  enveloping,  softening,  and  there  was  a  big 
company  of  Cuirassiers  guarding  the  road. 

We  went  in,  and  the  church  was  crowded  from 
the  nave  to  the  doors,  and  all  the  nave  and  the 
little  chapels  were  blazing  with  the  lily  lights  of 
the  candles.  It  was  all  so  white  and  so  pure,  so 
effulgent,  so  starry.  There  was  an  uplift  about  it, 
an  elan;  tragic  as  it  all  was,  there  was  ever  that 
feeling  of  beyond,  beyond ! 

Before  the  altar  lay  the  young  man's  coffin — 
that  leaden  coffin  that  had  stood  by  his  father  in 
the  fortress  of  Toul  for  three  weeks,  waiting  for 


88  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

the  dead.  It  was  completely  covered  by  the 
French  flag,  and  the  candles  burnt  around  it 

Beside  me  was  a  woman  with  her  husband. 
She  wept  so  bitterly  through  the  whole  service 
that  my  heart  was  just  wrung  for  her,  and  her 
husband's  face,  as  his  red-lidded  eyes  stared  out 
in  the  misty  church,  was  one  of  the  most  tragic 
things  I  ever  saw.  I  wept,  of  course,  and  I  have 
not  cried  very  much  since  the  war  broke  out,  but 
her  grief  was  too  much  for  me.  Finally  she 
turned  to  me  and  said :  **Madame,  I  only  had  one 
son,  he  was  so  charming,  so  good;  he  has  fallen 
before  the  enemy,  and  I  don't  know  where  he  is 
buried!''  Just  think  of  it!  There  she  was,  at 
the  funeral  of  another  man's  son  because  he  was 
a  soldier!  Link  upon  link  of  sorrow  and  suffer- 
ing— such  broken  hearts.  .  .  . 

The  service  was  musical,  violins  and  harps — 
quiet  and  sweet — and  that  little  group — Le  Roux 
with  his  daughter  and  the  little  fiancee — touched 
me  profoundly.  In  the  coffin  lying  under  the  flag 
Bessie  had  placed  at  Toul  her  little  silk  pillow  for 
the  young  soldier's  head,  and  his  love-letters  in 
a  little  packet  lay  by  his  side.  Around  his  arm 
he  had  worn  a  little  ribbon  taken  from  the  hair 
of  his  sweetheart,  and  at  the  very  last  when  he 
was  dying  and  the  hospital  nurse  was  about  to 
unknot  it — I  don't  know  why  the  boy  put  up  his 
feeble  hand  to  prevent  her;  of  course  they  buried 
it  with  him,  and,  as  you  think  of  it,  you  can  hear 
that  unknown  voice  on  the  battlefield,  that,  as  the 
stretcher-bearers  came  to  look  for  the  wounded, 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  89 

called  out:    "Take  him,  he  is  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried; and  leave  me." 

Oh,  if  out  of  it  all  arise  a  better  civilisation, 
purer  motives,  less  greed  for  money,  more  humani- 
tarian and  unselfish  aims,  we  can  bear  it. 

I  think  of  America  with  an  ever-increasing  love ; 
I  am  proud  to  belong  to  that  young  and  far-off 
country,  but  if  our  voice  is  raised  now  in  en- 
couragement for  Belgium,  encouragement  for  the 
Allies,  and  in  reprobation  of  these  acts  of  dis- 
honourable warfare  and  cruel  barbarism,  I  shall 
love  my  country  more. 

How  superb  the  figure  of  the  Belgian  king  is, 
standing  there  among  the  remnant  of  his  army, 
and  surrounded  by  his  destroyed  and  ruined  em- 
pire, and  the  cries  of  the  people  in  his  ears — a 
sublime  figure.  When  the  war  is  over  I  hope  they 
will  make  him  king  of  France  and  Belgium  and 
Germany — that  would  be  a  fitting  reward.  He  is 
certainly  one  of  the  biggest  figures  in  history. 

Yours  as  ever, 

M. 


To  Mrs,  F,  B.  Van  Vorst,  Hackensack,  N.  J. 

Paris,  Oct.  1914. 

My  dear  Mary, 

...  In  June  last,  driving  home  from  the  Bois, 
I  noticed  a  beautiful  building  in  process  of  con- 
struction at  Neuilly — a  very  good  example  of  a 
chateau  of  the  time  of  Frangois  Premier^  pink 
bricks  and  white  filling,  turrets,  terraces,  etc.     I 


90  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

was  told  It  was  the  Lycee  Pasteur,  a  college  for 
boys,  supposedly  to  open  in  the  month  of  October 
to  receive  the  young  students.  Little  did  I  think 
what  a  different  aspect  the  place  would  wear  when 
I  should  see  it  again  on  the  day  when  I  drove 
up  to  offer  my  services  as  a  Red  Cross  nurse! 
All  along  the  front  now  were  the  ranged  khaki- 
coloured  motor  ambulances,  all  bearing  the  sign 
of  the  inevitable  Red  Cross;  private  ambulances 
too,  attached  to  the  hospital  for  service,  decorated 
with  the  flags  of  France  and  England  and  the  red 
and  white  flag  of  the  Red  Cross.  And  here  and 
there  across  the  courtyard  flitted  the  nurses  In 
their  snow-white  uniforms,  with  the  Red  Cross 
on  their  breast.  On  the  terraces  of  the  boys' 
school  were  grouped  the  invahd  and  convalescent 
soldiers  in  their  khaki-coloured  dressing-gowns, 
red  or  yellow  fezzes  on  the  heads  of  some  of 
them,  and  taking  care  of  them.  In  her  white  uni- 
form with  the  Red  Cross  on  breast  and  coif,  their 
nurse. 

I  went  Into  the  entrance  of  the  hospital,  which 
was  full  of  animation:  orderlies  In  their  white 
linen  uniforms,  and  the  little  boy  scouts,  young 
sons  of  gentlemen,  too  young  to  go  to  war  and 
whom  their  mothers  had  permitted  to  leave  school 
in  order  that  they  might  serve  their  country;  gal- 
lant little  fellows,  working  day  and  night,  out  In 
the  rain  and  the  cold,  their  little  bare  knees  red- 
dened and  chafed  with  exposure,  and  some  of 
them  wearing,  when  on  their  bicycles,  silk  and 
woollen  wristlets  knitted  over  here  by  the  Ameri- 
can women. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  91 

At  the  desks  were  groups  of  men  I  had  known 
in  the  world,  occupied  with  the  duties  of  the  or- 
ganisation. I  sat  down  on  a  bench  to  wait  and 
waited  a  long  time;  and  just  here  I  want  to  give 
you  a  little  picture. 

We  used  to  see,  sitting  on  the  same  bench  for 
five  days  running,  a  tiny  little  French  child — 
poor  little  thing — a  mite  of  a  girl,  brought  by  her 
mother  and  seated  there  to  wait  while  the  mother 
went  upstairs,  day  after  day,  to  see  her  man  in 
the  wards.  He  was  hopelessly  wounded;  there 
wasn't  a  stray  hope  for  him.  Whilst  he  was  there, 
he  was  decorated  with  the  Military  Medal  for  his 
services  on  the  field.  Little  did  the  child,  waiting 
there  day  after  day,  know  what  was  going  on 
upstairs;  and  we  were  so  struck  by  her  docility 
and  patience,  by  those  little  clasped  hands  in  her 
lap,  and  those  tiny  little  legs  so  high  above  the 
floor.  She  was  there  for  hours  whilst  her  mother 
spent  those  last  hours  of  life  with  her  husband. 
One  of  the  orderlies  went  up  to  the  little  girl  and 
said  to  her,  just  for  something  to  say:  ''What 
do  you  think  of  the  hospital?"  And  she  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  sweet  smile  and  answered  (in 
French,  of  course)  :  "I  think  it  is  a  very  nice 
place,  only  there  aren't  any  dolls  here."  That 
was  what  the  little  thing  was  thinking  about,  and 
you  can  imagine  that  the  next  day  when  she  came 
to  wait,  she  didn't  make  the  same  complaint,  for 
beside  her  sat  the  biggest  and  handsomest  doll 
that  the  orderly  could  find.  And  so  she  waited 
whilst  her  father  "passed  on"  and  her  little  heart 


92  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

was  comforted  as  she  unconsciously  kept  watch 
with  her  mother. 

I  became  Impatient  at  waiting  so  long.  The 
excitement  was  tense  and  very  keen,  and  I  couldn^t 
put  up  then  with  formalities;  so  without  asking 
any  further  questions,  I  pushed  the  door  open  and 
went  myself  In  search  of  Mrs.  Vanderbllt,  and 
for  the  first  time,  on  the  other  side  of  that  door, 
I  felt  I  was  part  of  a  hospital.  I  found  Mrs. 
Vanderbllt  standing  at  the  door  of  the  operating- 
room.  In  my  blue  uniform  with  brass  buttons 
and  the  Badge  of  the  Red  Cross  (of  a  private 
detachment),  I  looked  what  I  was  not — ^useful 
and  competent — and  why  she  ever  took  me,  I  fail 
to  know.  Some  time  I  shall  ask  her!  She  must 
have  felt  my  enthusiasm  and  Intense  Interest,  but 
I  think  the  real  reason  that  I  was  accepted  was 
that  there  were  not  enough  nurses  to  care  for  the 
wounded  who  were  being  brought  In. 

I  have  always  wanted  to  know  Mrs.  Vanderbllt. 
The  first  thing  I  ever  heard  about  her  was  that 
she  was  doing  good.  It  Impressed  me  In  a  vague 
way.  And  then  I  heard  again  that  she  was  doing 
more  and  greater  good;  until  finally  she  grew  to 
stand  for  me  as  some  one  constantly  doing  good 
everywhere — a  most  enviable  reputation !  I  grew 
to  think  of  her,  not  as  a  figure  of  a  society  woman. 
I  forgot  her  vast  wealth  and  her  position,  and  I 
thought  of  her  only  as  a  great  human  heart,  as  a 
woman  of  broad  and  generous  sympathies,  oc- 
cupied with  the  sufferings  of  others  and  giving 
herself  to  humanity.  I  used  to  ask  about  her 
from  others  who  knew  her  whenever  I  had  the 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  93 

opportunity;  but  I  must  confess  that  I  hardly  ex- 
pected ever  Intimately  to  cross  her  path. 

When  I  pushed  open  that  door  at  the  American 
Ambulance  and  went  in  and  found  myself  actually 
standing  before  Mrs.  Vanderbllt,  without  any  in- 
troduction, I  did  not  realise  even  then  that  a 
long-looked-for  moment  had  come.  Even  in  that 
moment,  I  forgot  who  she  was,  eager  in  my  desire 
to  become  sensibly  part  of  that  great  machine, 
the  American  Ambulance;  and  I  forgot  that  the 
quiet,  dignified  woman  in  her  nurse's  dress  was 
the  great  and  celebrated  Mrs.  Vanderbllt.  I 
think  that  in  a  moment,  however,  a  sympathy  was 
established  between  us.  I  hope  so  and  I  believe 
it.  I  told  her  that  I  had  made  some  studies  in 
Red  Cross  work  and  that  I  wanted  to  join  the 
auxiliaries  here.  Mrs.  Vanderbllt  was  president 
of  the  auxiliaries  and  had  the  whole  corps  under 
her  charge.  I  did  not  know  this,  but  was  so  for- 
tunate as  to  come  immediately  to  the  right  source, 
and,  as  I  said  before,  she  took  me  immediately. 

At  first  I  was  put  in  the  bandage-room,  but 
very  shortly  Mrs.  Vanderbllt  transferred  me  to 
the  gangrene  ward.  As  I  went  into  that  ward  and 
shut  the  door  behind  me,  my  heart  would  have 
sunk  if  it  had  had  time,  but  it  never  did.  The 
odour  seemed  a  conglomeration  of  every  foul  and 
evil  thing — penetrating,  dank;  and  from  then  on 
that  terrible  odour  seemed  to  penetrate  to  my 
very  bones,  and  when  I  went  out  into  the  streets  of 
Paris  I  wondered  what  had  happened  to  the  city. 
When  I  got  home  I  dropped  my  garments  in  an 
anteroom.     Fancy  living  in  that,  day  after  day, 


94  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

as  those  nurses  do;  and  you  never  get  used  to  it 
— never!  Into  that  ward  were  put  all  the  worst 
cases  of  gangrene,  and  when  I  went  In  there  were 
seven  men  In  those  beds  all  infected,  terribly  in- 
fected; and  the  only  hope  was  to  save  as  many 
as  could  be  saved  from  putrefaction  and  death; 
and  that  is  what  the  American  Ambulance  is  do- 
ing. 

My  first  thought  was  that  the  things  were  not 
properly  cleansed,  and  I  said  to  the  head  nurse, 
who  barely  had  time  to  give  me  a  nod  and  greet 
me:  *'May  I  burn  something  here?"  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  her  look  at  me — not  unkindly. 
*'Why,  yes;  you  can  burn  anything  you  like." 
You  will  hardly  believe  it,  but  I  burned  some 
paper!  I  heard  one  nurse  say  to  another:  "She 
doesn't  know  what  it  Is,"  and  then  they  went  on 
with  their  duties.  The  work  never  stopped  in 
the  gangrene  ward — never. 

When  finally  they  took  me  from  the  gangrene 
ward,  I  was  loth  to  go — I  didn't  want  to  leave  it, 
I  begged  to  be  allowed  to  stay.  It  doesn't  seem 
possible,  does  it? 

Well,  I  worked  during  that  first  day,  perform- 
ing the  services  asked  of  me,  and  I  found  out  what 
distances  and  what  real  fatigue  meant.  (One 
day  I  borrowed  a  pedometer,  and  found  that  I 
had  walked  twelve  miles  that  day,  besides  attend- 
ing to  my  various  duties.)  It  was  nearly  six 
o'clock  and  I  hadn't  seen  a  single  wound,  and  what 
I  was  going  to  do  when  I  did,  I  didn't  want  to 
think.  One  of  the  chief  surgeons  came  in  to  at- 
tend to  the  dressings.     We  were  the  last  on  his 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  95 

list:  we  had  to  be — we  were  so  infected  and  un- 
desirable. Nothing  could  be  done  after  us — we 
were  the  limit.  So  the  poor  surgeon,  after  at- 
tending to  all  his  other  duties  and  performing  his 
operations,  came  in  here  to  our  poor  men.  .  .  . 

From  the  gangrene  ward  to  Miss  Curphey's 
ward  was  transposition  into  paradise.  Here  is 
the  smart,  chic  ward  of  the  hospital  and  there  are 
eight  officers  in  it.  I  left  my  obnoxious  men  with 
great  regret.  And  I  am  afraid  Miss  C.  didn*t 
want  to  have  me !  She  thought  me  only  an  auxil- 
iary of  no  use;  but  when  she  found  I  was  serious 
and  determined  and  had  no  thought  but  to  serve 
her,  we  became  great  friends  and  I  can  never  for- 
get what  she  has  taught  me.  She  is  charming 
and  pretty  and  one  of  the  best  nurses  in  the  hos- 
pital. 

I  want  to  tell  you  of  the  picturesqueness  and 
interest  of  the  first  room  from  the  receiving  hall 
where,  direct  from  the  trenches,  the  men  are  car- 
ried in  from  the  motors — a  long  line  of  stretchers 
with  their  pitiful  burdens,  the  men  with  their 
wounds  dressed  on  the  field,  men  who  have  not 
had  their  boots  off,  or  their  clothes,  for  three 
weeks,  some  of  them  with  grey,  strange  faces — 
such  anxious  looks,  such  pallor !  And  those  dread- 
ful dressings  that  have  been  on  for  days.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  courage  it  took  to  take  the  safety- 
pins  out  of  a  gangrened  wound  for  the  first  time : 
it  wasn't  pleasant. 

Miss  Curphey's  ward  is  full  of  beautiful  flow- 
ers and  beautiful  fruits.  There  are  no  disagree- 
able smells  there.    It  is  as  fresh  as  a  daisy.    And 


96  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

out  of  the  windows  we  can  see  the  roofs  of  several 
houses  and  the  waving  trees  and  the  church,  whose 
bell  tolls  constantly — every  day  for  too  many 
hours — although  the  mortality  is  not  great. 

It  is  wonderful  to  find  how  completely  you  can 
forget  yourself  in  this  hospital,  and  how  every 
thought  of  personal  disinclination  disappears  be- 
fore the  needed  service.  But  it  is  hard  work. 
When  I  go  home  at  night,  I  feel  like  the  little  boy 
whose  mother  made  his  trousers  and  he  said  he 
didn't  know  whether  he  was  coming  or  going.  I 
can  scarcely  move  from  fatigue.  At  the  end  of 
the  day,  an  extra  demand  is  sometimes  almost 
more  than  flesh  and  blood  can  bear.  The  other 
day  I  had  just  served  the  eight  men  their  suppers 
and  was  going  home — blissful  words  I — when  Cap- 
tain K.,  who  is  a  regular  spoilt  darling,  sat  up  in 
bed  and  called  to  me  as  I  was  slipping  through 
the  door:  *'0h,  I  say,  nurse,  do  you  think  I  could 
have  a  little  jam?*'  Now  that  doesn't  sound  like 
anything  to  you,  does  it?  but  it  meant  about  four 
minutes'  walk  over  those  stone  floors,  up  and 
down  stairs.  It  was  a  tragedy  to  me.  Of  course 
I  started  off  for  the  jam,  and  when  I  brought  it 
back  encountered  my  superior.  Miss  C,  who  gave 
me  an  icy  glance  and  said:  *'You  had  no  right 
to  go  and  get  jam  without  permission."  And  that 
doesn't  sound  much,  but  a  reproof  from  a  superior 
nurse  is  a  very  serious  thing;  it  hurts  and  upsets 
you  horribly,  and  you  wish  you  were  dead,  and 
that  you  had  never  worked  in  a  hospital,  and  all 
sorts  of  foolish  things;  and  you  blush  and  want 
to   throw  the  jam   at  the   soldier's  head,   even 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  97 

though  he  is  a  magnificent  military  man.  But 
here  is  the  point  of  the  story.  The  captain,  who 
was  frightfully  wounded  and  had  shown  the  cour- 
age of  a  lion,  heard  it.  He  could  stand  before 
the  German  guns,  but  he  couldn't  face  his  head 
nurse's  displeasure.  I,  anxious  as  to  the  result, 
answered:    "Of  course  I  got  it,  Miss  C,  because 

Captain  K.  wanted  it  and "     What  was  my 

horror  to  hear  him  say:  "Oh  no,  I  didn't — I 
never  asked  for  anything  of  the  sort!"  He 
couldn't  face  Miss  C. !  The  next  day,  out  of  the 
hour,  I  laughed  at  it  and  told  her  about  it.  I 
said:  "I  was  really  too  furious  for  anything 
when  that  Englishman  asked  for  jam."  And 
she  looked  at  me  reproachfully  and  said:  "Re- 
member, he  is  one  of  our  wounded  heroes."  And 
of  course  I  did.  He  has  jam  every  night 
now.  .  .  . 

All  the  northern  part  of  France  is  devastated 
and  in  ruins.  Twenty-one  departments  are  in  the 
hands  of  the  invaders.  Famous  industries,  whose 
beauty  and  grace  and  utility  you  have  loved  and 
proved,  are  no  more.  There  is  no  more  linen, 
no  more  beautiful  glass,  no  more  wool.  The  new 
and  the  ancient  patterns,  the  exquisite  moulds,  are 
all  wiped  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  These  are 
some  of  the  material  disasters.  ...  Of  the  in- 
dustrious, peace-loving  inhabitants,  hundreds  and 
thousands  are  captives,  hundreds  and  thousands 
are  utterly  homeless,  destitute,  hungry  and  un- 
clothed. .  .  . 


98  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  N.  Y. 

Edgware,  Oct.  22nd,  1914. 

Dearest  Belle, 

Thank  you  so  much  for  your  letter,  so  unique 
these  days  that  I  shall  put  It  under  glass — the  first 
one  received  for  too  long  to  count! 

I  returned  here  last  night  after  a  three  weeks' 
absence,  to  find  London  celebrating  Trafalgar 
Day,  the  city  gay  and  everything  going  strong — 
even  the  Russian  Ballet.  The  recruiting  is  going 
well,  so  one  can't  blame  the  spirit  of  the  times 
which  keeps  Its  temper  up,  and  after  all.  It  Is  no 
doubt  better  to  be  normal  as  long  as  possible. 
But  coming  to  England,  as  I  did,  from  sights  that 
England  could  not  wish  to  see,  from  the  bedside 
of  men  that  England  loves  and  honours,  I  could 
not  help  but  feel  the  great  pathos  of  it.  Even 
the  white  and  crimson  flag  In  flowers,  as  It  lay 
across  the  Iron  flank  of  the  big  lion  at  the  base  of 
Nelson's  monument,  was  like  the  red  cross  on  the 
snowy  hospital  sheet — lilies  and  blood.  And  If 
it  Is  all  glorious,  as  Indeed  it  is.  Death  Is  so  Irre- 
parably over  It  all  that  high-hearted  courage  Is 
sometimes  apt  to  fail. 

I  came  out  here  to  little  Edgware,  at  1 1  o'clock 
at  night,  through  streets  scarcely  lighted,  where 
tramways  and  omnibuses  are  Illuminated  by  muted 
lamps  and  ghastly  blue  lights,  where  the  road  is 
scarcely  safe  to  travel  for  Its  forced  darkness,  and 
all  along  the  wayside  the  little  cottage  windows, 
with  their  deepest  lights,  seemed  to  call  the  sons 
home  again — and  so  vainly !    And  before  my  eyes, 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  99 

as  it  will  often  come,  I  saw  the  face  of  Charlie 
Hern  as  he  lay  in  Ward  69.  It  was  one  of  his 
good  days ;  the  ghastly  colour  had  not  yet  spread 
into  his  cheeks ;  and  in  his  dialect,  hard  for  me  to 
understand,  he  kept  repeating  the  name  of  his 
home — "Mountain  Ash" ;  and  you'd  scarcely  have 
known  the  word,  it  sounded  so  strange  in  his  coun- 
try tongue.  He'd  written  to  them,  but  he  hadn't 
heard.  Would  I  write?  And  I  promised.  And 
the  next  time  I  saw  him  was  down  in  the  operat- 
ing-room, when  they  wheeled  him  in  and  he  was 
too  infected  and  dangerous  for  me  to  dare  to  ap- 
proach, standing  as  I  was  by  my  sound,  healthy 
Guernsey  boy.  Individual  cases,  if  you  like;  but 
I  thank  Heaven  that  I  can  feel  their  appeal. 
Women  make  better  nurses  who  do.  You  needn't 
be  a  sickly  sentimentalist;  they're  no  good;  but 
unless  the  human  heart  remains  deep  and  its  ex- 
pression free,  the  world  isn't  worth  living  in. 
Arras,  Rheims,  and  the  beauties  that  have  gone 
out  for  ever  would  have  been  spared  by  a  race 
where  there  was  less  science  and  more  heart. 

It's  all  very  well  to  laugh  at  amateur  nurses, 
and  if  you  will  recall  one  of  my  letters,  written 
in  London  during  the  times  of  my  Red  Cross 
examinations,  you  will  see  that  I  laughed  first 
and  with  you.  But  that  is  all  changed.  The  auxil- 
iaries and  the  amateurs  at  the  American  Ambu- 
lance have  done  perfectly  marvellous  work.  Those 
ladies  gifted  first  with  intelligence  and  tenderness, 
common  sense  and  dignity,  are  now  difficult  to 
distinguish — some  of  them — from  the  profession- 
als; and  even  as  far  as  the  battle  line,  lying  so 


loo  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

red  and  so  trampled  in  Belgium,  they  have  done 
superb  work. 

I  crossed  this  time  with  the  wife  of  an  Irish 
major  in  one  of  the  big  regiments.  She  had  come 
from  the  Astoria  Hotel,  where  her  husband  was 
lying  wounded.  She  said  to  me:  "My  husband 
asked  to  have  the  two  French  lady  auxiliaries  to 
take  care  of  him — two  charming  Frenchwomen, 
kind  and  gentle  beyond  words — because  the  Eng- 
lish trained  nurses  were  so  anxious  to  be  out  at 
the  front  and  in  the  trenches,  that  they  couldn't 
give  him  the  care  he  needed."  At  the  Astoria 
were  two  nurses  who  had  come  in  from  the  battle 
of  the  Aisne — one  of  them  with  her  arm  blown 
off  and  the  other  with  both  legs  injured  for  life. 
This  lady  on  the  boat  had  seen  and  talked  to 
both  these  women,  and  they  told  her  that  the  Ger- 
mans had  systematically  shelled  the  Red  Cross 
hospitals  where  they  worked,  and  nearly  all  the 
wounded  soldiers  were  killed. 

Of  course  there  is  a  great  deal  of  inefficient 
help  offered,  that  goes  without  saying;  but  it  is 
quickly  weeded  out  and  cast  away,  as  nothing  but 
an  iron  constitution  and  real  devotion  could  stand 
the  strain. 

My  Guernsey  boy  got  well  fast.  That  is  the 
happy  note  in  it  all — when  they  get  well  fast  and 
go  home.  And  I  assure  you  it  was  a  picturesque 
thing  to  see  him  sitting  there  by  the  bedside,  my 
dear,  getting  into  those  colossal  boots  and  into  his 
khaki  clothes  that  had  been  stripped  off  the  night 
he  came.  He  was  big  and  tall  and  the  convales- 
cence had  done  him  good,  and  he  went  off  weak 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         'loi 

but  happy  to  Guernsey — to  the  fruits  and  flowers 
and  the  sea  air — for  a  month,  arid  then  back 
again. 

After  leaving  my  French  lieutenant  for  two 
weeks  whilst  they  operated  on  more  important 
people,  they  finally  decided  to  get  the  ball  out  of 
him,  and  I  decided  that  I  was  going  to  see  it 
done — not  for  curiosity — there's  plenty  to  satisfy 
that  in  these  wards  I — but  because  he  was  a  sensi- 
tive boy,  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  and  I  de- 
termined that  I  would  not  leave  him,  and  I  told 
him  so.  I  must  confess  that  it  seemed  to  help  the 
thing  along  to  know  that  he  was  going  to  be  taken 
down  from  his  bed  and  brought  back  there'  by  his 
own  nurse.  We  stood  with  him  in  the  ante- 
chamber of  the  operating-room  from  one  to  four, 
on  our  feet,  the  orderly  and  I,  I  mean.  Quite  a 
time,  hey?  Do  you  know,  it  was  quite  a  fortunate 
wait.  The  lieutenant  got  over  his  nervous  strain, 
and  I  warmed  his  feet  and  hands;  and  by  the 
time  they  came  round  for  us,  we  were  laughing 
and  talking  about  all  kinds  of  things.  So  we  went 
in.  This  was  my  second  operation,  and  a  very 
mild  one,  for  the  ball  was  only  under  one  of  the 
ribs  and  involved  simply  an  opening  of  the  shoul- 
der and  extraction.  Dr.  Dubouchet  is  a  perfect 
marvel.  He  is  the  president  of  the  hospital,  and 
went  through  the  Russo-Japanese  War  and  the 
Abyssinian  massacres,  and  is  altogether  a  very 
charming  person.  Dr.  Dubouchet,  when  he  had 
fished  out  the  ball,  took  it  with  his  fingers  right 
out  of  the  wound  and  threw  it  across  the  floor,  all 
covered  as  it  was  with  blood,  and  I  picked  it  up 


102  War  letters  of 

and  had  it  washed.  The  first  thing  that  the  boy 
said  when  he  came  to  his  senses  was :  "Show  me 
the  ball."  And  I  had  it  there  for  him,  wrapped 
up  in  a  little  bit  of  cloth.  He  had  a  temperature 
and  looked  so  blond,  and  so  appealing,  in  his  poor 
little  hospital  jacket,  so  at  the  mercy  of  these 
contending  forces,  such  a  light  bit  of  humanity 
to  stand  against  the  battle  fire.  And  he  kept  on 
saying:  *'I1  faut  etre  vainqueurs!  Dites-moi 
que  nous  sommes  vainqueurs !  Qu'importe  si  moi 
je  meurs,  si  les  nouvelles  sont  bonnes?'*  It  hap- 
pened that  the  news  was  bad,  but  I  assured  him 
to  the  contrary,  and  stayed  there  far  beyond  my 
time  until  he  was  somewhat  soothed. 

Don't  think  for  a  moment  that  I  am  going  to 
describe  at  length  all  the  hospital  cases,  repeating 
myself  ad  infinitum;  but  these  are  just  little  thumb 
notes  of  the  war  of  19 14,  and  may  be  of  interest 
some  day. 

The  little  flat  on  the  Place  du  Palais  Bourbon 
had  many  pretty  pictures  in  it,  some  of  those  last 
evenings  before  I  left,  I  assure  you.  I  wish  that 
you  could  have  brushed  aside  the  veil  of  distance 
and  have  looked  in  on  my  little  study,  untouched 
and  unchanged,  for  I  have  never  put  anything 
away  in  it.  It  Is  just  as  it  was,  excepting  that 
the  big  war  map  covers  the  wall  and  the  flags 
flutter  outside  the  window.  There  was  a  bright 
fire  on  the  hearth — ^you  know  its  changing  colours, 
its  lilac  and  its  ruby  flames.  And  there  on  the 
sofa  was  Madelon  Hancock,  in  her  dark  blue  and 
white  dress,  with  the  Red  Cross  on  her  breast; 
and  sweet  little  nurse  Wells,  In  the  lilac  and  white 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         103 

of  the  London  Hospital,  with  the  fluttering  folds 
of  the  veil-cap  on  her  head;  and  I  wore  the  white 
of  the  American  Ambulance.  We  were  smoking, 
of  course,  and  talking,  and  the  two  of  them  had 
just  come  from  Antwerp,  where  they  had  been 
from  the  beginning  in  the  British  Field  Hospital. 
Theirs  are  tales  that  make  mine  absolutely  pale. 
When  the  Germans  came  within  range  they  de- 
stroyed the  aqueducts,  and  these  nurses,  with 
their  170  patients,  were  almost  without  water. 
Just  think  what  that  means  in  a  hospital!  The 
little  they  used  had  to  be  carried  from  distant 
wells.  Madelon  and  the  chief  doctor  together 
dug  a  cesspool  for  the  refuse  in  the  garden,  and 
as  they  dug  the  shells  flew  about  them,  the  bullets 
snipping  the  leaves  from  the  trees ;  and  they  were 
such  veterans  by  then  and  so  hardened  that  they 
laughed  even  over  their  putrid  work.  These  two 
women,  with  the  other  nurses,  evacuated  the 
hospital,  packing  those  miserable,  mutilated  bodies 
like  sardines  in  the  omnibuses  which  a  few  weeks 
before  had  been  rolling  around  with  the  travelling 
public  in  London.  And  Madelon  and  Miss  Wells 
were  fifteen  hours  travelling  through  the  day  and 
night  with  their  poor  suffering  load — the  band- 
ages soaked  and  soaked  again ;  the  dangling  limbs, 
just  amputated,  some  of  them,  and  scarcely 
dressed.  Think  of  it — all  the  courage  and  forti- 
tude demanded  of  these  women,  and  the  nerve! 
They  were  obliged  to  make  detours  to  escape  the 
live  electric  wires  placed  by  the  Germans  across 
the  road.  Their  last  omnibus  had  scarcely  left 
the  pontoon  bridge  across  the  Scheldt,  when  it 


I04  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

was  blown  up  behind  them.  Through  the  noise 
of  war,  with  the  wounded  In  the  buses  groaning 
and  crying  out,  themselves  wet  nearly  to  the  bone 
and  Icy  cold,  they  drove  to  Ghent,  placed  their 
charges  in  safety  there,  only  to  be  told  to  evacuate 
again.  On  to  Ostend — on  to  the  boats  for  Eng- 
land. Out  of  the  170,  only  three  died  on  the  way, 
and  these  girls,  with  a  few  others,  brought  their 
hurt  children  safely  Into  port.  There  were,  these 
sane  and  normal  women  found,  humorous  sights 
even  In  this  horror.  On  the  boat,  they  had 
scarcely  lain  down  to  snatch  a  moment's  rest  when 
they  were  called  to  a  cabin  where  a  woman  refu- 
gee was  in  labour!  Miss  Wells  Is,  of  course,  a 
regular  nurse,  but  Madelon  knows  little  more 
about  the  birth  of  children  than  you  do.  Yet  the 
baby  was  born  and  Madelon  received  It,  washed 
It  In  a  steamboat  cuspidor,  holding  It  between  her 
knees  and  powdered  it  with  Colgate's  tooth  pow- 
der. Miss  Wells  says  that  she  will  never  forget 
it  as  long  as  she  lives — that  morsel  of  humanity, 
holding  with  Its  tiny  little  hands  on  to  the  edges 
of  the  cuspidor. 

I  think  you  can  imagine  that,  although  the 
waiting  list  at  the  American  Ambulance  Is  enor- 
mous, Madelon  and  Nurse  Wells  were  taken  on 
immediately.  I  have  now  three  nurses  there  be- 
longing to  my  section  of  the  Entente  Cordlale. 
Mrs.  Vanderbilt  has  joined  and  I  am  going  to 
ask  Dr.  Dubouchet  to  join  as  well. 

I  am  awfully  sorry  that  the  little  bird  is  dead, 
but  I  am  glad  it  was  the  lady  bird.  They  can  be 
spared  better  now  than  the  boy  birds  I     And  I 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         105 

suppose  that  this  one  has  now  fulfilled  all  his 
promise  and  is  sporting  a  long  plume. 

Of  course,  I  am  sure  that  you  all  think  of  us. 
One  knows  that.  But  you  can  form  no  possible 
conception  of  the  atmospheric  and  psychological 
state  of  things,  and  how  difficult  it  is  to  form  an 
opinion  of  the  value  of  anything  when  one  is  in 
the  midst  of  it. 

I  didn't  care  at  all  about  the  Times  clipping. 
They  always  treat  me  perfectly  rottenly.  They've 
never  given  me  a  good  criticism.  I  never  read 
book  criticisms  or  subscribe  to  them  anyway. 
George  Eliot  always  said  that  the  ones  that 
praised  her  she  didn't  beheve,  and  the  ones  that 
criticised  her  made  her  mad;  and  I  feel  the  same 
way. 

Here  in  London  all  the  shops  are  open  and  the 
fabric  gloves  in  the  Burlington  Arcade  will  soon 
be  no  more.  The  fabric  was  made  in  Germany 
and  put  up  here,  and  is  now  exhausted.  The 
man  has  laid  aside  all  his  remaining  stock  of  your 
size — a  couple  of  dozen  pairs — and  if  you  want 
them,  will  you  write  to  him  direct,  as  there  won't 
be  any  more,  and  the  price  has  not  gone  up,  for 
a  wonder. 

In  Paris  everything  is  opening  slowly,  although 
there  is  no  trade  whatsoever,  and  no  one  would 
want  to  dress  and  go  about  like  a  jay  when  every 
second  person  you  see  is  in  mourning. 

The  German  losses  amount  now  to  nearly  800,- 
000,  the  French  probably  to  500,000,  and  these 
figures  were  given  some  time  ago. 

Dresses  are  very  short,  up  to  the  tops  of  the 


io6  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

boots,  and  the  whole  style  military;  and  gaiters 
are  worn — long  gaiters,  which  would  please  you, 
only  there's  no  one  to  wear  them,  as  I  said. 

Creed  is  closed  as  tight  as  a  drum.  All  the 
salesmen  are  at  the  front,  in  different  armies. 
Paquin  is  open,  and  the  dear  old  Hotel  du  Rhin 
Is  just  exactly  as  it  always  has  been,  excepting  that 
it  is  closed  and  Hoffmann  a  mystery.  Nobody 
knows.  I  wonder  if  we  shall  ever  know  what 
became  of  him? 

I  have  had  two  offers  to  go  to  the  front. 

It  must  be  too  much  fun  to  have  Bunny  with 
you — darling  little  boy!  And  who  keeps  the 
geraniums  blooming  in  the  window  boxes?  I  am 
deeply  interested  in  all  the  things  you  do  over 
there,  and  it  is  a  great  rest  to  read  about  them. 
That's  all  for  the  present. 

Yours  with  all  my  heart, 

M. 


To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz,  New  York. 

Paris,  Nov.  nth,  1914. 

Dear  Violet, 

You  ask  me  to  tell  you  something  of  Glory 
Hancock.  She  made  a  wonderful  record  for  her- 
self at  the  American  Ambulance,  where  they  loved 
her,  from  the  humblest  to  the  highest.  The  pa- 
tients simply  adored  her.  With  her  dark  blue 
field  ambulance  dress  and  her  splendid  carriage, 
she  was  a  fine,  impressive  figure.  Heaven  knows 
she  had  enough  to  do  in  her  ward  of  forty  men 
— a  terrible  number — and  if  she  had  not  been 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         107 

so  restless  she  could  have  stayed  on  and  been  in- 
valuable to  the  end.  Her  little  friend,  Miss 
Wells  of  the  London  Hospital,  is  a  perfect  nurse, 
and  they  made  a  fine  running  team.  Imagine 
what  a  void  they  left!  And  now  they  are  back 
at  the  front — "Somewhere  in  Flanders !" 

Oh,  It's  a  great  time,  my  dear,  if  you  are  work- 
ing in  it.  I  had  really  hoped  that  yesterday 
would  be  my  last  day  at  the  hospital,  because  I 
am  aching  to  write;  but  I  absolutely  hadn't  the 
courage  to  tell  them  when  I  went  up  yesterday 
that  I  wouldn't  come  again.  There's  no  one  to 
take  my  place  in  two  wards  on  the  third  floor, 
and  until  there  is  I  simply  must  go  on.  So  I 
have  girded  up  my  loins  and  I  feel  a  little  more 
rested  to-day  and  shall  return  for  a  few  days  at 
least.  On  Monday  I  think  there  will  be  three 
auxiliaries. 

In  my  ward  I  have  three  men  from  Tunis  and 
one  of  them  has  two  frightful  wounds — they  beg- 
gar description.  Yesterday  I  kept  covering  his 
eyes  with  my  hands  all  the  time  they  were  dress- 
ing them,  as  he  tried  to  peer  round  like  a  poor 
little  monkey.  His  body  is  chocolate  colour,  and 
on  the  skin,  soft  as  silk,  his  great,  terrible  open- 
mouthed  wounds  make  a  strange  effect.  I  guess 
he  thought  so  too,  poor  dear!  When  the  doc- 
tors came  to  dress  them,  he  had  to  be  held  in 
order  to  keep  him  from  grabbing  the  doctor. 
Every  now  and  then  during  the  dressings  he 
would  kiss  my  hands.  Of  course  you  can't  get 
sentimental!  With  seven  men  to  attend  to,  you 
don't  shed  tears  over  one  poor  little  nigger  from 


io8  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Tunis ;  but  your  heart's  stirred  all  the  time.  .  .  . 

Paris  is  growing  normal.  Shops  are  opening. 
Everything  promises  a  loosening  of  the  tension. 
I  have  filled  my  cellar  with  coal  and  wood,  as 
they  say  the  supply  is  going  to  lack.  As  for  my 
own  plans,  they  are  just  now  more  than  sketchy. 
I  want  to  go  to  Rome  and  to  America,  and  I 
will  let  you  know  definitely  which  I  am  going  to 
do  when  I  know  myself. 

I  hope  you  will  like  the  little  book  of  poems. 
I  have  paid  for  them  on  this  side,  so  anything 
you  sell  them  for  will  be  clear  profit  and  just  send 
the  money  to  whatever  Belgian  fund  you  are  in- 
terested in. 

Thank  you  for  offering  to  send  the  nurse.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  do  I 

Last  night,  at  the  end  of  the  hospital  day,  I 
brought  down  with  me  in  a  tiny  motor  belonging 
to  Vera  Arkwright  the  head  nurse  of  the  hospital. 
Miss  Devereux,  who  has  charge  of  the  American 
Hospital  in  times  of  peace.  She  was  so  exhausted 
and  worn  out  with  the  terrible  day  that  she  could 
hardly  speak.  The  fresh  air  and  the  drive  down 
began  to  rest  her,  and  when  she  got  here  in 
my  little  study,  before  the  fire,  so  quiet  and  so 
sweet,  with  a  good  little  dinner,  and  with  Bessie's 
society  and  mine  to  cheer  her,  she  bloomed  out 
like  a  flower.  She  is  a  New  York  hospital  nurse, 
and  gave  me  another  picture  to  remember  in  the 
little  study,  under  the  war  map,  all  in  snow  white, 
with  no  cap,  and  just  the  gold  medal  of  the  New 
York  hospital  round  her  neck.  Such  a  fine  spir- 
itual face;  such  a  strong,  dignified  woman!    We 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         109 

didn't  talk  much  of  the  hospital,  but  we  talked, 
all  three  of  us,  of  spiritual  things,  and  it  was  a 
wonderful  thing  to  find  her  one  of  those  simple 
Christians,  full  of  the  very  light  of  God,  strong  in 
the  best  sense  of  the  word,  living  by  faith.  I 
don't  think  I  have  enjoyed  any  evening  half  so 
much  for  a  long  time.  I  am  sure  that  you  will 
respond  to  this  note  and  care  too.  It  is  fine  to 
feel  that  the  hospital  there  is  under  the  spell  of 
this  noble  woman  who  **believes  in  fairies,"  as 
Barrie's  play  says — who  believes  in  miracles. 
There  wasn't  a  discordant  second  in  the  long 
evening  and  she  went  back  with  pink  cheeks  and 
bright  eyes  to  those  wards  where  three  were  to 
die  that  night  and  she  had  to  go  on  her  noble 
watch.  She  spoke  in  an  especially  kindly  way 
of  the  auxiliaries  and  of  their  extraordinary  pow- 
ers of  endurance.  She  said  that  she  would  not 
have  believed  that  women  of  the  world  unused  to 
discipline  or  to  concentrated  effort,  could  have 
been  what  these  women  have  been  at  the  Am- 
bulance. Vera  Arkwright,  for  Instance,  has  not 
missed  a  single  day  since  she  went  there. 

The  dressing  carts  are  so  picturesque.  You 
see,  I  naturally  see  the  notes  of  colour  that  things 
make — I  can't  help  it — and  when  I  went  out  from 
the  hospital,  Vera  stood  there  in  her  blue  dress, 
with  her  tiny  little  cap  on  her  head — she  is  fault- 
lessly beautiful,  and  very  celebrated  for  her  looks 
— and  all  around  her  was  a  pile  of  the  most 
dreadful  bandages  you  ever  saw.  (I  won't  de- 
scribe them.)  She  was  gathering  them  up  to 
destroy  them  and  to  prepare  her  cart  for  the 


no  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

next  trip.    Both  she  and  Madelon  are  able  to  do 
their  dressings  themselves. 

I  am  mailing  this  week  a  letter  to  the  New 
York  Times,  making  an  appeal  for  the  American 
Ambulance.  It  is  a  poor  letter — couldn't  be 
worse — but  still,  it  is  a  very  hard  thing  to  write. 
I  hope  you'll  see  it  and  speak  to  people,  though 
I  know  you  hate  to  ask  for  donations  of  any  kind. 
Ever  devotedly  yours, 

M.  V. 


To  Mr.  F.  B.  Van  Forst,  N,  Y. 

Nov.  20th,  1 914. 

My  dear  Brother, 

I  wonder,  as  I  sit  here,  in  one  of  those  rare, 
quiet  moments  that  fall  in  a  nurse's  day,  whilst 
I  am  preparing  my  charts,  what  they  are  thinking 
of  in  this  silent  room. 

This  group  is  singularly  silent.  They  do  not 
talk  from  bed  to  bed,  as  some  of  the  more  loqua- 
cious do.  Directly  opposite  is  one  of  those 
fragile  bits  of  humanity  that  the  violent  wind  of 
war  has  blown,  like  an  unresisting  leaf,  into  the 
vortex.  Monsieur  Gilet  is  a  humble  little  school 
teacher  from  some  humble  little  village  school  in 
a  once  peaceful  commune,  where  in  another  little 
village  school  his  humble  little  wife  teaches  school 
as  he  does.  He  is  so  light  and  so  frail  that  1  can 
lift  him  myself  with  ease.  He  has  a  shrapnel 
wound  in  his  side  and  they  have  not  found  the 
ball.  His  thin  cheeks  are  scarlet.  He  is  gentle- 
ness and  sweetness  itself.    What  has  he  ever  done 


} 

"I  WONDER  WHAT  THEY  ARE  THINKING  OF  IN  THIS  SILENT  ROOM" 


HE  WILL  NEVER  FULLY  SEE  HIS  GARDENS  AGAIN ' 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         iii 

to  be  crucified  like  this?  Monsieur  Gilet  is  not 
thinking  of  his  burning  wound.  He  is  thinking 
of  the  little  woman  in  the  province  of  Cher.  How 
can  she  come  to  see  him?  She  has  no  conge. 
When  will  she  come  to  see  him?  For  his  life  is 
all  there  in  that  war-shattered  country.  She  has 
a  baby  twelve  weeks  old,  born  since  he  went  to 
battle.  That's  what  he  is  thinking  of.  When  will 
she  come? 

On  his  right  is  a  superb  Arab,  with  an  arm 
and  hand  so  broken  and  so  mutilated  that  it  is 
hard  to  hold  it  without  shuddering  when  the  doc- 
tors drain  it.  On  his  head  I  have  carefully  ad- 
justed a  bright  yellow  flannel  fez.  His  mild  do- 
cile eyes  follow  the  nurse  as  she  does  for  him  the 
few  little  things  she  can  to  make  him  more  at 
ease.  For  every  service  done,  he  thanks  her  in 
a  sweet,  soft  voice.  Just  now,  when  I  left  him 
to  come  over  here  and  sit  down  before  my  table, 
his  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  can  say  a  few 
words  of  French.  He  kisses  my  hand  with  orien- 
tal grace.     *'Merci,  ma  mere." 

On  Monsieur  Gilet's  left  lies  a  man  whose  lan- 
guage is  as  hard  to  understand,  very  nearly,  as 
the  Arab's — almost  unintelligible — a  patois  of  the 
Midi.  He  is  a  gardener,  used  only  to  the  care 
of  plants  and  flowers.  He  is  a  big,  rugged  giant, 
and  so  strong,  and  so  silent  a  sufiferer  that  since 
his  entrance  to  the  hospital  he  has  not  made  one 
murmur  or  one  complaint,  or  asked  one  service, 
and  excepting  when  spoken  to,  he  never  says  a 
word.  Then  he  gives  you  a  radiant  smile  and 
some  token  of  gratitude.    They  operated  on  him 


112  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

to-day.  There  Is  shrapnel  In  his  eye.  He  will 
never  fully  see  his  gardens  again,  and  he  Is  so 
strong  and  so  patient  and  so  able  to  bear  pain, 
that  they  operated  on  him  without  anaesthetics, 
and  he  walked  to  and  from  the  operating  room — 
a  brave,  silent,  docile  giant,  singularly  appealing. 
.  .  .  He  Is  thinking  of  his  gardens,  trodden  out 
of  all  semblance  of  beauty,  for  he  had  been  work- 
ing In  the  north  before  the  heel  of  the  barbarian 
crushed  out  his  flowers  for  ever  and  blotted  out 
his  sight. 

Your  sister, 

M. 


To  Mrs,  Victor  Morawetz,  N.  Y. 

Paris,  Nov.  25th,  1914. 

Dear  Violet, 

I  wish  I  had  the  power  to  make  Paris  visible 
to  you  these  late  November  days — some  of  them 
so  clear  and  frosty  that  the  very  fires  burn 
brighter  for  the  sparkling  air;  some  of  them,  as 
to-day  for  instance,  misty  and  gloomy  and  full 
of  such  portentous  bodlngs.  Through  the  streets, 
everywhere,  pass  the  ambulance  motors — those  of 
the  Dames  de  France,  those  of  the  Croix  Rouge, 
those  of  the  American  Ambulance,  those  of  the 
many  auxlhary  hospitals,  British  and  French — 
grey  waggons,  with  their  meaningful  Red  Cross. 
And  autos — grey  again,  many  of  them — full  of 
officers  rushing  from  the  Etat  Major,  from  the 
quarters  of  Gallieni,  up  here  by  the  Invalides, 
whirling  rapidly  through  the  streets,  across  the 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         ii^ 

Pont  Alexandre,  up  the  Champs  Elysees,  out 
through  the  gates  and  on  and  on.  Everywhere 
War  is  stamped  upon  the  face  of  this  city  that 
you  and  I  have  known  and  loved  so  at  peace. 
There  are  now,  in  these  cruelly  cold  winter  days, 
the  tragic  sights  of  faces  worn  and  pinched. 
There  are  the  constant  sights  of  new  mourning — 
oh,  so  many  women  in  heavy  crape !  Then,  too, 
everywhere  soldiers — the  petit  pioupiou  in  his  red 
breeches,  and  now  and  then  the  khaki  uniform 
of  England,  and  occasionally  the  Belgian. 

Paris  seems  wonderful  to  me — never  so 
adored!  It  seems  to  me  these  days  that  I  carry 
it  on  my  heart  as  something  infinitely  loved — 
as  a  human  thing,  threatened,  troubled,  menaced 
still — and  which  must  be  protected,  is  protected 
by  the  blood  of  many  hearts. 

A  little  while  after  my  return,  as  you  know 
through  my  letters,  things  seemed  normal  to  us — ^ 
almost  secure.  It  has  been  tragically  pathetic 
to  watch  that  attempt  for  balance — that  swinging 
of  the  pendulum  of  human  reason  and  human 
character  to  the  adjustment.  Every  one  has  tried 
to  go  on;  industries  have  tried  to  lift  up  their 
heads.  Along  the  Rue  de  la  PaTx,  now  and  again, 
the  shops  would  open,  blinds  lifting  up  like  the 
cautious  opening  of  a  half-shut  eyelid,  as  if  to 
see  if  there  were  anything  worth  looking  at.  And 
the  commergant,  anxious  to  do  a  little  business, 
eager  to  keep  on  some  of  the  sorely  dependent 
workpeople.  Doucet  has  kept  his  entire  staff  "a 
tour  de  role" — one  lot  one  week,  the  next  week 
the  other.    Many  shops  do  the  same.    At  Jeanne 


114  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Hallee's,  poor  little  Fernande  has  lost  one  brother 
in  the  trenches.  You  would  scarcely  know  her; 
she  looks  fifty  years  old.  And  all  the  others  we 
know  have  husbands  and  brothers  and  lovers  "la- 
bas." 

A  few  days  ago,  there  began  to  come  over  me 
again  that  spirit  of  unrest — that  strange,  psychic 
foreboding  that  I  had  before  war  was  declared 
last  August.  The  fact  of  Bessie's  marriage  and 
the  few  little  things  that  I  have  had  to  do  for  her, 
the  fact  that  I  have  been  perfectly  settled  and 
comfortable  at  home  and  found  it  so  adorable  and 
so  sweet,  even  the  hospital,  could  not  dissipate, 
in  my  mind,  that  anxiety;  and  to-night  I  know 
what  it  all  went  for  and  meant.  We  have  been 
told  to-day  that  the  Germans  are  at  Chantilly. 
Just  how  true  that  is,  who  can  say?  But  again, 
there  is  no  doubt  about  it  that  Paris  is  in  the 
scheme  of  those  dreadful,  dreadful  hordes.  Now 
that  we  all  know  what  they  are,  now  that  we  have 
the  documents  of  their  passing  through  the  north, 
there  is  hardly  a  Parisian  can  bear  the  idea  of  a 
repeated  late  August  and  early  September.  Bessie 
confessed  the  other  day  that  at  that  time,  when 
Robert  decided  to  remain  alone  at  the  Matin,  she 
went  down  to  the  office  and  besought  him,  with 
tears  streaming  down  her  face,  to  leave  while 
there  was  yet  time.  She  told  me  that  she  was 
terrified — that  it  just  seemed  to  her  that  she 
couldn't  bear  it.  She  had  bought  an  enormous 
quantity  of  provisions — three  armoires  full — and 
decided  to  stock  her  rez-de-chausse  windows  with 
them,  label  them  ''Delikatessen"  and  put  out  her 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         115 

American  flag;  then,  with  her  police  dog  by  her 
side,  to  take  her  chances!   .  .  . 

To-day  at  Bessie's  we  had  Monseigneur  Battie- 
fol,  the  eveque  who  is  to  marry  her,  to  luncheon. 
He  is  a  perfect  dear — so  clever  and  so  charming. 
We  had  a  lovely  time  together,  we  four,  sitting 
around  that  pretty  table  on  the  eve  of  her  mar- 
riage. .  .  . 

I  have  just  spent  an  hour  with  the  Marquise 
de  S.  It  has  been  lovely  beyond  words  to  see  her 
again.  She  has  just  come  home.  .  .  .  Her  son 
Henri  was  well  the  last  she  heard  of  him,  and  I 
really  think  that  her  great  love  and  her  constant 
prayers  will  keep  him  safe  to  the  end.  Each  time 
we  have  been  out  together,  we  bought  some  warm 
comforting  things  or  some  delicacy  to  send  him 
in  those  dreadful  trenches. 

The  stories  of  courage  are  many.  Lately  a 
group  of  French  Zouaves,  with  hands  tied  behind 
their  backs,  were  marched  by  the  Germans  in 
front  of  their  lines.  As  the  French  advanced 
to  fire  on  the  enemy,  the  Germans  cried  out, 
**Don't  fire;  you'll  kill  your  own  men  I"  And 
the  Zouaves  called  out  to  their  comrades :  "Mais 
tirez-donc,  tirez  done!  C'est  pour  la  patrie!" 
And  the  French  fired,  understanding  that  those 
who  died  thus  for  their  country,  with  their  bound 
hands,  disarmed,  died  as  gloriously  as  it  is  pos- 
sible to  die. 

Goblet  d'Alviella's  documents  have  just  come 
to  me  from  Belgium,  and  I  have  sent  them  on  to 
you.  They  tell  their  tale,  do  they  not?  And 
it's  a  tale  that  goes  on  without  ceasing — one  long- 


ii6  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

drawn-out  horror,  from  a  people  incapable  of 
either  humanity  or  soul.  God  knows  that,  if  they 
conquer,  I  don't  want  to  live  in  the  same  world 
with  them. 

This  is  the  letter  I  sent  to  the  New  York 
Herald. 

**It  is  with  profound  regret  that  we  learn  of 
the  departure  of  Mr.  Herrick  from  France. 

*'He  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  most  popular 
figures  of  this  present  momentous  time.  The 
Americans  and  the  other  nations  whose  interests 
he  has  so  ably  guarded  owe  him  a  debt  of  appre- 
ciative gratitude.  He  has  been  equal  to  a  situa- 
tion demanding,  besides  the  diplomatic  talent 
which  his  high  function  presupposes,  delicacy,  un- 
derstanding and  kindness.  He  has  met  a  difficult 
proposition  with  diplomacy  and  with  heart.  This 
combination  has  assured  him  a  success  which  per- 
haps few  Ambassadors  have  ever  attained.  He 
has  helped  thousands  and  offended  no  one.  He 
has  shown  a  wide  charity  and  a  tenderness  toward 
the  suffering  that  France  will  never  forget;  nor 
will  the  American  citizens — troubled,  anxious  and 
in  threatened  danger — who  received  from  him 
his  counsel  and  his  protection." 

Mr.  Herrick  has  made  himself  perfectly  adored 
here.  His  letters  from  the  great  men  of  France 
were  most  appreciative,  and  the  opinion  of  the 
public  is  that  a  colossal  blunder  has  been  made 
in  recalling  a  man  who  understood  the  situation, 
and  who  handled  everything  with  tact,  brilliancy 
and  affection  for  France.     He  has  given  me  a 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         117 

letter  to  the  American  Ambassador  in  Rome — I 
am  going  to  quote  it  to  you. 

"I  commend  in  person  Miss  Van  Vorst,  whom 
you  know  personally  and  by  reputation,  but  I  do 
desire  to  especially  recommend  her  to  your  cour- 
tesy and  to  your  care.  She  has  been  so  invariably 
sympathetic,  so  enormously  useful  in  her  hos- 
pital work  at  the  American  Ambulance — as  she 
always  is  everywhere,  where  women's  sympathies 
are  drawn.  You  will  be  glad  to  hear  of  her  ar- 
rival in  Rome.  I  commission  her  as  my  Ambassa- 
dress to  Rome  to  say  good-bye  for  Mrs.  Herrick 
and  myself,  as  we  are  sailing  on  the  Rochambeau, 
Whilst  we  have  a  singing  in  our  hearts  when  we 
think  of  home  and  children,  it  is  with  ineffable 
sadness  that  we  take  our  departure  in  the  midst 
of  the  grief  and  sorrow  which  pervades  this  coun- 
try, and  as  we  leave  the  people  for  whom  we  have 
a  sincere  affection,  etc.,  etc." 

I  cannot  help  but  think  that  never  in  all  your 
life  would  you  find  anything  as  thrilling  as  Paris 
is  now,  although  at  this  moment  I  would  not 
wish  you  here.  The  absence  of  the  heavy  vehicles, 
the  absence  of  all  clatter  and  that  senseless  rush 
of  people  who  are  spectators  of  life  without,  in  a 
way,  being  participators,  is  a  great  improvement. 
All  that  has  gone  and  now  it  seems  as  though 
only  people  who  really  mean  something  to  the 
country  remain — patriots,  people  of  the  soil  and 
of  the  town,  people  doing  their  duty,  people  ab- 
sorbed in  caring  for  others,  the  grave  and  the 


ii8  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

self-forgetful,  those  who  have  the  service  of  their 
country  at  heart  and  are  in  its  employ.  There  is 
absolutely  nothing  in  the  city,  as  far  as  one  can 
see,  that  is  unreal,  and  you  can't  help  but  feel 
that  all  here  are  part  of  the  web  of  destiny  in  a 
very  real  fashion,  making  history  with  the  others 
— part  of  this  cloud  that  passes  across  the  face 
of  France.  There  are  no  places  of  amusement 
open,  except  the  cinemas;  although,  hesitatingly, 
the  theatres  promised  to  come  back,  they  have 
not,  and  probably  will  not  for  some  time.  Most 
beautiful  flowers  fill  some  of  the  shops — those 
great,  luscious,  deep-hearted  pinks  that  you  love 
— and  here  and  there  a  little  cart  one  deep  blue 
mass  of  violets.  And  on  the  boulevards,  in  place, 
of  the  cumbersome  old  buses,  now  rolling  the 
p'tit  piou-piou  hither  and  thither,  are  queer  old 
waggonettes,  with  the  sign  *'Madelene-Bastille'* 
posted  up  on  them.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  touching  reason  for  the  giving  of 
one  special  Medaille  Militaire  in  a  certain  hos- 
pital. The  soldier  had  an  amputated  leg,  beside 
many  other  wounds,  and  his  sufferings  were  great. 
But  from  that  bed  of  his,  during  the  most  painful 
dressings,  not  only  was  there  never  a  word  of 
complaint,  but  there  was  such  gaiety,  such  good 
cheer,  such  bravoure,  such  spirited  greetings  to 
the  occupants  of  the  other  beds,  that  the  whole 
poor  amputated  ward  took  courage  from  him  as 
paling  torches  are  lit  from  a  superior  flame.  It 
is  satisfying  to  think  that  at  this  time  all  courage 
meets  its  reward,  for  here,  to  this  bed,  the  chiefs 
brought  the  decoration,  not  given  with  the  pro- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         119 

fusion  of  the  Iron  Cross — the  Medaille  Militalre 
— and  pinned  it  on  his  breast. 

Yours  ever, 

M. 

ITo  Mrs,  Victor  Morawetz, 

Paris,  Nov.  27th,  19 14. 

Dear  Violet, 

Knowing  your  interest  in  what  comes  to  us 
here,  I  want  to  tell  you  as  much  as  I  can  about' 
yesterday. 

Bessie  spent  Wednesday  night — the  night  be- 
fore her  wedding-day — here  with  me.  All  the 
evening  I  had  passed  waiting  in  the  little  study, 
putting  in  order  old  letters — letters  that  dated 
back  from  Bessie's  first  meeting  with  my  brother. 
...  I  am  going  to  make,  this  winter,  a  collection 
of  some  of  my  correspondence,  which  is  interest- 
ing beyond  words  and  a  real  human  document. 
.  .  .  We  had  a  lovely  evening  together. 

The  following  morning  we  both  dressed  tran- 
quilly. Bessie  wore  a  little  black  tulle  dress  with 
just  a  touch  of  blue  at  the  bodice;  and  she  had 
a  fur  cape  and  muff  and  a  very  pretty  hat,  and 
she  looked  sweet.  The  Marquise  de  Sers  sent  her 
auto,  and  Bessie  and  I  went  together  first  to  the 
Mairle  in  the  Rue  de  Crenelle.  This  quarter  is 
familiar  and  sacred;  we  have  both  lived  here  for 
nearly  fifteen  years.  There  in  the  Maine  we 
found  a  beautiful  old  room  opening  on  a  lovely 
garden  and  set  apart  for  us  and  the  Civil  Service. 
Monselgneur  Battiefol  was  there  in  his  long  black 
bishop's  coat,  edged  with  red  and  the  red  sash, 


I20  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

and  the  Secretary  of  the  French  Academy,  wit- 
nesses for  Robert,  and  Mr.  Herrick  and  myself 
witnesses  for  Bessie,  and  then  Bessie  and  Robert. 
They  two  sat  in  dark  velvet  chairs  before  the 
desk  of  the  mayor,  who  has  been  mayor  of  this 
quarter  for  thirty  years.  In  a  second  he  had  mar- 
ried them;  in  a  second  pronounced  for  the  last 
time  "Bessie  Van  Vorst." 

The  mayor  then  rose  and  made  a  short  ad- 
dress. You  know  what  a  bore  these  things  are  as 
a  rule,  but  this  happened  not  to  be.  Its  delivery 
took  about  four  minutes,  I  should  think,  and  it 
was  very  fine  indeed.  There,  at  this  momentous 
and  tremendous  time  in  which  we  live,  were  gath- 
ered in  that  little  room  people  of  unusual  dis- 
tinction. I  never  heard  anything  so  charming  as 
the  way  the  old  Frenchman  turned  to  Mr.  Her- 
rick, and  thanked  him  for  France,  and  wBat  he 
said  to  Robert  and  Bessie,  as  you  will  read,  was 
most  apt. 

We  then  went  from  there  to  the  little  chapel 
just  at  the  back  of  my  house,  St.  Clotilde,  and 
dear  old  Bishop  Battiefol  married  them  in  the 
sacristy,  and  we  stood  around  him  like  a  little 
family.  There  was  absolutely  nothing  to  jar, 
there  were  only  gathered  together  people  who 
were  dear  to  each  other — Bessie,  Robert,  and 
myself  and  Mr.  Herrick,  whom  we  care  for  very 
much,  and  the  distinguished  old  priest  and  the 
representative  of  the  Academy.  It  was  a  charm^ 
ing  memory  to  gather  and  put  away  with  many 
others  in  this  country  that  has  been  so  much  to 
us  all. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         121 

The  three  came  home  to  lunch  here  with  me: 
we  had  a  delicious  wedding  breakfast  and  sat  and 
talked  around  the  fire  until  four  oVlock,  and  then 
they  went  and  left  me  alone. 

Bessie  looked  beautiful,  well  and  happy,  and 
Robert  so  proud  and  glad.  Little  will  change  irt 
their  lives,  but  I  feel  once  more  my  loneliness  and 
how  the  receding  tide  goes  back  and  takes  with 
it  each  time  some  treasure  and  buries  it  irrevo- 
cably far  out  to  sea. 


To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews. 

Nov.  soth,  1914. 

Dearest  Belle, 

This  morning  I  was  just  sitting  down  for  a  long 
"winter's  nap"  when  Webb  brought  me  the  news 
that  Mollle's  maid  had  asked  that  one  or  two 
things  should  be  garnered  from  the  Hotel  dii 
Rhin.  Not  to  make  too  much  of  a  long  story, 
let  me  tell  you  that,  on  the  day  that  Mollie  left, 
Hoffmann  and  all  his  staff  tore  like  mad  for  Ger- 
many, and  the  police  let  him  get  away.  He  was 
attached  to  the  military  authorities  in  Germany, 
he  and  all  his  people  had  been  spies  for  years. 
Frs.  50,000  were  handed  to  him  from  the  Ger- 
man Embassy  as  he  got  on  the  train.  Some  say 
he  was  shot,  and  others  that  he  escaped.  The 
hotel  and  all  its  properties  have  been  handed  over 
to  the  authorities,  and,  as  Pierre  is  going  for  a 
soldier,  there  only  remained  one  day  for  me  to 
get  what  I  could  of  your  things,  as  everything  is 
to  be   sold  at  auction.     Webb  and  I  together 


122  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

danced  over  and  got  them  all.  I  wonder  if  you 
can  think  a  little  bit  how  I  felt  going  up  those 
five  flights  of  stairs  in  that  cold,  deserted  hotel, 
past  rooms  that  were  not  cold  or  deserted  when 
I  knew  them  before.  Webb  had  already  made 
one  journey  over  there,  and  Pierre  had  refused 
to  open  the  cupboard,  telling  her  that  there  was 
nothing  there  of  yours.  You  see,  he  could  not 
very  well  refuse  me.  I  got  everything  (and  I 
think  I  got  a  little  more  I)  and  when,  later,  Webb 
returned  to  take  your  last  belongings  in  closely 
packed  clothes-baskets,  she  was  perfectly  flabber- 
gasted— and  as  she  is  as  honest  as  the  day  you 
can  imagine  how  disgusted  she  was  to  hear  Pierre 
absolutely  refuse  to  let  the  maid  of  another  lady 
take  away  her  lady's  things!  He  told  Webb 
quite  coolly  that  he  and  the  concierge  had  to  get 
sornething  out  of  it  for  themselves.  I  have  two 
trunks,  and  all  the  pretty  things  that  you  left 
behind.  It  gave  me  a  real  emotion  to  see  them, 
and  to  smell  the  scent  in  Mollie's  scent-bottle  put 
the  last  touch  to  it  all.  If  you  want  these  things 
packed  and  sent  to  America,  you  must  let  me 
know,  otherwise  I  shall  keep  them  all  here. 


To  Mr.  F.  B,  Van  Vorst,  Hackensack,  N,  /. 

Paris,  Dec.  4th,  1914. 

My  dear  Frederick, 

To-morrow  will  be  my  last  day  at  the  hospital, 
as  I  start  in  the  evening  for  Nice,  on  my  way  to 
Rome.     I  have  lately  found  myself  sole  nurse  in 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         12 j 

a  ward  with  nine  men.  I  could  not  have  borne 
the  responsibility  long — nor  would  I  have  been 
asked  to.  It  is  simply  filling  in,  but  I  have  neither 
orderly  nor  auxiliary.  The  men  have  been 
brought  from  other  wards  and  are  convalescing. 
Only  two  of  them  are  in  bed.  By  eleven  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  I  have  made  nine  beds,  given  nine 
men  their  breakfasts,  tidied  the  ward — of  course, 
the  sweeping  and  cleaning  are  done  by  char- 
women— and  dressed  the  wounds  of  nine  men, 
all  alone.  I  have  all  my  materials  spread  out  on 
a  little  table — things  for  sterilising,  etc. — and  of 
course  I  work  in  gloves.  They  are  mostly  hand 
wounds,  arm  wounds  and  foot  wounds,  and  those 
of  the  men  who  can,  come  to  me  at  the  table,  to 
my  little  clinic.  The  first  day  when  I  arrived 
there  and  unrolled  those  bandages,  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  going  to  find;  but,  marvellous  to  re- 
late, I  seemed  to  be  equal  to  the  task.  There 
Isn't  anything  in  the  world  like  the  expressions  on 
the  faces  of  those  men  when  you  have  relieved 
their  pain  and  dressed  them  well,  and  they  tell 
you  that  they  have  had  a  good  night's  sleep, 
thanks  to  you,  and  you  see  the  colour  in  their 
cheeks  and  their  temperature  is  normal  and  they 
are  doing  well.  Oh,  It's  wonderful  I  One  of  the 
men's  legs  is  amputated  above  the  knee  and  that  Is 
the  most  serious  work  I  have  had  to  do  In  the 
Ambulance. 

Bessie  came  in  one  day  with  gifts  for  my  men, 
and  knowing  that  I  had  natives  In  my  ward,  she 
brought  them  each  a  little  mirror.  You  would 
not  suppose  that  a  piece  of  glass  could  give  such 


124  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

joy.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  them  gazing 
at  their  eyes  and  at  their  teeth,  which,  brushed 
in  the  hospital,  had  never  been  brushed  before. 
One  of  them — ^Ali — would  have  brushed  his  teeth 
every  hour  if  we  had  let  him,  and  then  he  ex- 
amined every  separate  tooth  in  the  mirror.  Think 
of  it !  Brought  from  those  deserts,  from  the  mud 
cabins  and  the  tents,  to  be  cut  up  like  this,  and 
to  gaze  for  the  first  time  at  their  image  in  a  bit 
of  glass  in  a  military  hospital  I 

Some  of  the  natives  are  especially  picturesque. 
In  the  ward  next  mine  there  are  two  Soudanese — 
not  brown,  but  black.  They  are  savages  of  the 
most  pronounced  t)^e,  and  both  of  them  are 
wounded  beyond  description.  One  of  them  has 
seventy-jive  wounds. 

In  another  ward  near  mine  there's  a  strong, 
splendid  Englishwoman.  She  took  a  dislike  to 
me  at  the  first — didn't  know  why  a  writer  should 
want  to  bother  with  her  profession,  but  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  win  her,  so  I  bore  her  severity. 
Well,  a  great  deal  goes  down  before  determina- 
tion and  good  humour,  and  Miss  Hickman's  dis- 
approval went  down  when  we  were  called  upon 
to  do  some  little  services  together  and  she  found 
that  I  was  serious.  Finally,  we  became  friends, 
and  I've  been  in  and  helped  her  in  the  afternoon, 
when  I  had  time,  for  she  has  no  auxiliary  either. 
She  let  me  assist  in  the  dressings,  and  I  have 
grown  very  fond  of  her  ward.  It  is  full  of  Eng- 
lish Tomr.iies,  and  unless  you  nurse  them  and  help 
those  Et^lish  boys,  you  don't  know  what  they 
are.    They  are  too  lovely  and  too  fine  for  words. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         125 

One  perfectly  fine  young  fellow  has  had  his  leg 
amputated  at  the  thigh — his  life  ruined  for  ever. 
Another  is  blind,  staring  into  the  visions  of  his 
past — he  will  never  have  anything  else  to  look  at 
again.  The  chief  amusement  of  these  fellows 
seems  to  be  watching  the  funerals,  and  they  call 
me  to  run  to  the  window  to  see  the  hearses  cov- 
ered with  the  Union  Jack  or  the  French  flag,  and 
they  find  nothing  mournful  in  the  processions. 
One  Sunday  afternoon,  as  I  sat  there,  leaning 
against  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  a  few 
country  flowers  in  a  vase  near  by — for  Miss 
Hickman  asks  for  country  flowers  for  country 
lads — I  asked  them  if  they  wouldn't  sing  me  a 
song  that  I  had  heard  a  good  deal  about  but  had 
never  heard  sung.  *  What's  that,  nurse?"  asked 
the  boy  without  a  leg.  "Tipperary'' — for  I  had 
never  heard  it.  "Why,  of  course  we  will,  won't 
we,  lads?"  and  he  said  to  his  companion,  only 
nineteen,  from  some  English  shire:  "You  hit  the 
tune."  And  the  boy  "hit  it,"  and  they  sang  me 
"Tipperary."  Before  they  had  finished  I  had 
turned  away  and  walked  out  into  the  corridor  to 
hide  the  way  it  made  me  feel,  and  I  heard  it  softly 
through  the  door  as  they  finished:  "It's  a  long 
way  to  Tipperary."  I  shall  never  hear  it  again 
without  seeing  the  picture  of  that  ward,  the  coun- 
try flowers  and  the  country  lads,  and  hearing  the 
measure  of  that  marching  tune.  .  .  . 

I  have  seen  Mrs.  Vanderbilt  constantly.  She 
seems  to  be  ubiquitous.  Wherever  there's  need, 
she  is  to  be  found — ^whether  in  the  operating- 
room,  the  bandaging-room,  or  in  one  of  the  great 


126  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

wards  where  she  has  charge.  I  have  found  her 
everywhere,  just  at  the  right  moment:  calm, 
poised,  dignified,  capable  and  sweet.  But  none 
of  this  expresses  the  strength  that  she  has  been  to 
the  American  Ambulance  since  its  foundation — < 
the  heart  and  soul  of  its  organisation;  and  her 
personal  gifts  to  it  have  been  generous  beyond 
words.  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do  when  she 
finally  returns  to  America.  She  animates  the 
whole  place  with  her  spirit  and  her  soul.  .  .  . 

To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews, 

Nice,  December  19th,  1914. 

My  dear  Belle, 

I  would  like  to  tell  you  of  the  day  before  that 
on  which  I  left  Paris  for  Rome,  and  make  it 
stand  out  for  you,  as  it  did  for  me,  in  its  pictur- 
esqueness,  its  tenderness  and  its  interest. 

I  had  told  them  that  I  was  going  to  Rome,  and 
I  could  not  go  on  with  my  hospital  work,  and 
made  all  my  plans  to  leave  in  a  day  or  two, 
knowing  that  as  my  place  would  be  more  than 
filled  I  could  desert  my  post;  but  just  as  I  was 
about  to  take  my  leave  one  of  the  head  nurses 
asked  me  if  I  would  take  charge  of  Ward  246,  as 
the  capable  woman  who  had  had  charge  of  it 
since  the  opening  of  the  hospital  had  succumbed 
to  the  long  fatigue,  and  had  contracted  appendi- 
citis from  standing  indefinitely  for  months,  and 
from  overwork,  and  was  obliged  to  go.  *'There 
Is  neither  orderly  nor  assistant  nurse,'*  she  said, 
*'^nd  in  that  ward  there  are  nine  men,  and  you 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         127 

must  do  all  the  dressings.''  She  seemed  to  take 
it  so  for  granted  that  I  would  not  at  that  moment 
go  back  on  the  situation,  that  you  can  imagine  for 
nothing  in  the  world  would  I  have  refused,  but 
as  I  followed  her  into  Ward  246  and  realised  that 
I  was  at  last  alone  before  the  situation,  for  which 
for  months  I  had  been  preparing,  I  felt  a  not 
unnatural  qualm. 

Her  confidence  in  me,  and  the  fact  that  she 
would  not  have  asked  me  if  she  had  not  been 
sure,  for  some  unknown  reason,  that  I  was  equal 
to  the  moment,  gave  me  the  necessary  courage, 
and  I  accepted  the  wonderful  opportunity  with  the 
same  joy  that  I  have  accepted  all  these  experiences 
from  the  beginning. 

I  found  myself  before  the  task  of  dressing 
alone  the  wounds  of  nine  men,  but  the  joy  of  be- 
ing quite  alone,  and  having  no  one  to  speak  to  me, 
to  disturb  me  or  to  give  me  any  orders,  was  so 
new  and  so  delightful  that  it  was  a  stimulus.  The 
perfect  organisation  of  the  hospital,  the  quantity 
of  material  on  hand,  the  well-filled  closet,  with  all 
the  necessities  for  the  merciful  work,  were  great 
helps,  and  in  a  short  time  I  had  installed  on  the 
middle  table  of  my  ward  my  Ifttle  impromptu 
dispensary. 

The  first  one  I  dressed  was  on  the  left  of  the 
Ward  as  I  went  in — a  poor,  touching  English 
chap  of  about  thirty  years  of  age.  His  left  leg 
was  amputated  to  the  middle  of  the  thigh,  and  I 
can  assure  you  that  when  I  undid  those  dressings 
and  realised  what  was  before  me,  I  felt  as  serious 
as  I  ever  felt  in  my  life.    He  held  up  his  terrible 


128  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

stump,  helping  me  as  well  as  he  could.  Well,  I 
finished  that  job,  covering  the  appalling  surface 
with  the  healing  balsam  salve  we  use  so  much  in 
the  Ambulance,  and  left  him  high  and  dry  ?nd 
comfortable. 

The  other  men,  with  one  exception,  were  out 
of  bed,  and  one  by  one,  when  I  had  made  myself 
and  my  materials  ready,  I  asked  them  to  come  up 
to  the  table  to  be  dressed.  The  first  man  had  the 
back  of  his  hand  blown  off  and  was  wounded  in 
the  arm,  and  one  had  no  fingers.  The  others  were 
minor  wounds,  only  demanding  cleansing  and  re- 
bandaging. 

I  was  on  duty  at  a  quarter  to  eight,  and  by 
eleven  o'clock  I  had  tidied  the  ward,  made  nine 
beds,  dressed  the  wounds  of  nine  men — after  giv- 
ing them  their  breakfast — taken  all  the  tempera- 
tures, and  just  as  I  was  about  to  sit  down  and  catch 
a  breath,  the  dinner  hour  arrived,  and  the  serving 
had  to  begin  all  over  again. 

I  was  working  in  this  Ward  until  the  last  mo- 
ment, when  I  took  the  train  for  Rome,  and  I 
can  assure  you  that  when  I  turned  my  back  on  the 
Ambulance  that  night,  leaving  it  all  bathed  round 
in  the  red  of  a  rarely  beautiful  winter  sunset,  it 
seemed  as  though  I  could  not  go,  as  though  the 
very  fibres  of  my  life  were  engaged  there  in  that 
merciful  and  touching  work. 

I  do  not  speak  of  physical  fatigue,  for  it  is 
hardly  interesting,  excepting  that  the  eyes  swim 
and  the  hands  tremble  when  you  want  them  spe- 
cially strong. 

I  remember  that  one  night,  I  had  been  asked  to 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         129 

a  dinner  at  half-past  eight,  which  I  was  especially 
anxious  to  attend.  It  was  the  first  time  that  Bes- 
sie and  her  husband  had  been  asked  with  me  to 
dinner  at  the  house  of  the  Marquise  de  S.,  and 
I  did  want  to  go  very  much  indeed. 

During  my  work  in  the  American  Ambulance, 
I  always  lunched  and  dined,  whenever  I  did  so,  in 
my  hospital  dress,  just  as  I  was,  as  there  was 
never  any  time  to  make  a  toilet,  and  this  time  I 
had  finished,  as  I  thought,  my  duties  and  was  just 
about  to  turn  away,  after  saying  good-night  to 
my  men,  and  to  give  up  my  Ward  to  the  night- 
nurse,  when  I  looked  over  to  the  ninth  bed,  in 
which  the  latest  comer  was  sitting  upright,  with 
an  appealing  expression  on  his  pale,  agreeable 
face.  He  was  an  ordinary  soldier  from  the 
trenches,  brought  in  late  from  one  of  the  other 
Wards,  and  I  had  supposed  him  ready  for  the 
night.  I  could  not  help  but  return  to  him  for  the 
second.  I  asked  him  with  my  heart  almost  fail- 
ing, "Can  I  do  anything  for  you?"  "Well,"  he 
said,  "I  have  not  closed  my  eyes  for  two  nights 
because  my  wounds  are  so  dry.  You  would  not 
look  at  them,  would  you?"  When  I  took  off  his 
shirt  I  found  he  was  bandaged  from  his  groin 
almost  to  his  armpits,  and  I  knew  that  under  those 
bandages  would  be  a  very  serious  proposition  for 
me  to  face  after  twelve  hours  on  duty.  I  went 
out  to  see  If  I  could  not  find  some  one  more  re- 
sponsible, but  it  just  happened  that  there  was  no 
one,  and  how  could  I  refuse  to  give  what 
skill  and  experience  I  had  to  this  contingency? 
When  I  unbandaged  the  poor  thing  I  found  across 


130  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

his  back  two  wounds,  whose  width  and  whose 
gaping  mouths  cried  to  Heaven.  I  think  it  took 
me  about  half  an  hour  to  wash  them,  to  cleanse 
them  and  bind  him  up  again.  By  that  time  my 
hands  were  trembling  and  my  limbs  were  almost 
beyond  my  own  control. 

I  remember  driving  to  Cousin  Lottie's,  going 
In  in  my  white  clothes,  and  up  that  beautiful 
stairway  to  the  peaceful  salon,  where  she  sat  with 
her  two  guests  on  either  side  of  her.  They  were 
all  waiting  for  me,  with  such  deep  sympathy  for 
the  sons  of  France  and  England,  for  whom  I  was 
caring  as  best  I  could.  All  Cousin  Lottie's 
dear  ones  were  on  the  firing  line,  and  she  sat  wait- 
ing for  news.  As  for  Le  Roux,  you  know  what 
his  news  has  been!  I  could  not  have  gone  into 
a  more  sympathetic  audience,  but  I  had  nothing 
to  say  to  them.  I  was  tired  beyond  words  and 
they  saw  it,  and  excused  me  and  I  went  home  to 
bed,  and  to  those  heavy  dreamless  sleeps  that 
mercifully  come  after  great  physical  exhaustion. 

In  the  heart  of  the  night  I  awoke  again  and 
again,  thinking  of  the  pale-faced  man,  who  un- 
wiUingly  and  timidly  had  asked  me,  at  the  last 
moment,  to  soothe  those  dry  and  crying  wounds. 
What  if  I  had  not  done  my  work  well?  What  if 
some  carelessness  on  my  part  had  infected  those 
pitiful  slits.  I  could  not  sleep,  and  at  seven  in  the 
grey  cold  of  the  early  morning  I  went  back  to  my 
Ward. 

I  want  you  to  imagine  my  joy  as  I  opened  the 
door  upon  that  place  which  I  had  grown  to  love. 
My  soldier  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  his  cheeks  quite 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         131 

pink.  He  held  out  one  of  his  hands  to  me  as 
I  crossed  the  floor.  "Merci,  merci,  ma  soeur, 
I  slept  all  night  as  I  used  to  sleep  when  I  was 
a  boy  and  did  not  know  what  war  was."  You 
can  Imagine  that  I  was  repaid  for  the  loss  of  a 
dinner  party  and  the  cost  of  a  little  fatigue. 

Of  course  this  is  only  one  tiny  incident,  and 
so  much  more  can  be  told  better  than  I  can  tell  it, 
and  the  stories  have  no  end. 

A  vous  de  coeur, 

M. 
To  Mrs,  Victor  Morawetz. 

Villa  Saint-Ange,  Nice,  Cimiez,  Dec.  9th,  19 14. 

Dear  Violet, 

It  is  a  long  time  ago  since  you  and  I  together 
saw  the  fronds  of  these  wonderful  palms  cast 
their  shadows  over  these  sunny  gardens.  I  have 
never  been  content  or  happy  on  this  coast,  as  you 
remember.  There  has  always  been  a  spirit  of 
depression  here  for  me  and  an  unrest.  But  com- 
ing down  here  this  week,  after  four  months  of 
strain  and  excitement,  there  has  been  something 
peculiarly  lovely  In  the  abrupt  change.  The  won- 
derful beauty  of  the  place  has  appealed  to  me  as 
never  before. 

This  villa  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  palace, 
most  beautifully  furnished  and  all  In  the  best  of 
taste.  I  came  down  on  the  train  with  Mme.  A., 
whose  husband  is  shortly  to  be  made  Command- 
ant, and  we  are  alone  here  with  the  little  girl,  who 
is  growing  up  intelligent  and  sweet,  and  it  is  a 
very  agreeable  etape. 


132  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

On  the  train,  Mme.  A.  told  me  her  life.  She 
was  born  of  a  peasant  family  in  Burgundy,  in  the 
simplest,  poorest  milieu.  At  sixteen,  she  came 
third  class  to  Paris,  with  frs.ioo  in  her  pocket, 
and  that's  all  she  had  in  the  world.  An  unknown 
girl,  she  took  the  first  omnibus  she  saw  in  the 
streets,  asked  one  of  the  passengers  for  the  ad- 
dress of  a  pimple  little  hotel,  and  went  there  alone 
to  seek  her  fortune.  Her  first  position  was  that 
of  lingere  in  a  little  shop  at  frs.25  a  month.  To- 
day she  is  a  millionaire !  She  has  a  Paris  house, 
a  house  at  Saint-Cloud,  a  chateau  on  the  Seine, 
and  this  villa  at  Nice,  besides  her  maison  de  com- 
merce. She  married  and  had  a  son  who  died;  and 
you  know  the  rest  of  her  life. 

It  was  hard  to  leave  France  and  Paris,  where 
daily  I  was  more  and  more  interested,  and  if  I 
had  been  sincerely  needed,  I  don't  think  I  would 
have  gone.  But  the  hospital  is  full  of  helpers, 
and  efficient  ones,  and  many  of  the  women  were 
leaving — all  of  them  anxious  to  go  to  the  front; 
and  that's  where  I  wanted  to  go  too.  If  I'd  been 
a  little  more  selfish  and  less  considerate  of  my 
duty  to  Mother,  I  would  have  gone  into  Belgium 
with  Ellen  La  Motte. 

To  Miss  B,  S,  Andrews, 

4,  Place  du  Palais,  Bourbon,  Paris, 

Dearest  Belle,  ^7th  December,  1914. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  lovely  Italy  and  Rome 
seemed  to  me  going  there,  as  I  have  just  done, 
from  this  war-ridden  country.  Even  in  this  time, 
the  trip  was  made  without  incident  or  delay,  and 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         133 

I  opened  the  windows  of  my  parlour  at  the  Bris- 
tol on  streets  flooded  with  sunlight  as  golden  as 
in  the  month  of  June.  There  was  the  fountain 
playing,  the  streets  filled  with  such  brilliant  flow- 
ers, and  the  flock  of  red-robed  priests  fluttering 
toward  the  Pincio.  The  fact  that  they  were  Aus- 
trians  made  me  turn  my  eyes  away,  and  I  real- 
ised that  I  was  no  longer  in  a  belligerent  country. 
Golden  and  brown,  golden  and  brown,  the  houses 
all  around  gave  and  reflected  back  the  ardent 
light.  There  was  something  to  me  very  repose- 
ful in  this  country,  the  third  I  have  visited  since 
the  war,  and  although  my  heart  and  sympathies 
are  so  strongly  with  the  others,  Italy  was  like  a 
happy  island  at  whose  shores  I  for  a  time  moored 
my  ship. 

In  times  of  peace  I  could  not  have  afforded 
such  apartments  as  I  had.  There  was  nobody 
in  the  Bristol,  and  they  gave  me  the  best  rooms 
in  the  house — gorgeous  salon,  bedroom  and  bath, 
a  room  for  Webb,  and  another  far  down  the  hall 
where  I  could  sleep  out  of  the  noise  of  the  streets, 
all  for  a  price  so  modest  that  it  was  not  even  to 
be  taken  into  consideration. 

We  arrived  at  seven  in  the  morning,  on  a  Fri- 
day, but  I  could  not  feel  the  day  unlucky,  there 
was  something  about  it  blessed,  and  the  very 
streets  seem  to  close  in  cordially  around  the 
Piazza  Barbarini.  Never  have  I  liked  Rome 
before.  You  know  here,  just  around  the  corner, 
I  almost  laid  down  my  life  three  years  ago,  and 
there  under  my  windows  another  fountain  played, 
and  I  heard  its  falling  waters  in  my  dreams  of 


134  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

fever  and  unrest.  Now  it  seemed  to  me  almost 
as  if  I  had  come  to  take  up  the  'Vita  nuova." 
I  talked  of  them  in  delirium. 

I  bathed  and  went  to  bed  to  rest  and  sleep 
before  sending  out  three  letters,  one  to  Mabel, 

one  to  G ,  and  my  letter  of  introduction  from 

Mr.  Herrick  to  Mr.  Page,  the  American  Am- 
bassador. I  rested,  but  could  not  sleep;  in  the 
distance  I  could  see  stretching  out  the  wonderful 
Campagna  that  surrounds  Rome.  I  knew  how 
the  Pincio  was  warming  there  in  the  morning  sun- 
light, and  that  amongst  the  little  children  with 
their  nurses  some  sunny  spot  would  find  a  little 
white  bird  of  a  baby,  a  motherless  little  bird,  and 
I  was  longing  to  see  her. 

Toward  noon  Mabel  came  in;  then  there  came 
a  wonderful  bunch  of  red  and  white  roses,  and 
when  I  came  out  from  my  bedroom  Webb  had 
already  made  the  salon  look  like  something  of 
home. 

Then  there  arrived  a  letter  from  the  Ambassa- 
dress, asking  me  to  tea,  and  I  went  and  met  at  the 
Embassy  some  new  friends  and  some  old.  Think 
of  it,  how  strange  it  should  chance  to  be  sol 
There  was  Mary  DebiUier,  my  friend  of  twenty- 
five  years  ago,  whose  friendship  I  made  here  in 
Italy,  and  with  whom  I  have  not  been  since.  How 
strange  to  find  her  there !  Then  there  was  Bea- 
trice Moore,  Ellie's  child,  never  seen  but  once 
since  her  babyhood.  It  seemed  so  singular  that 
these  old  relations,  both  of  them  connected  with 
so  much  tenderness  and  feeling,  should  be  there 
in  Rome. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         135 

From  the  moment  that  I  arrived  in  Rome,  until 
I  left,  I  had  one  kindness  after  another  extended 
to  me.  The  Pages  took  me  in  with  open  arms. 
*'The  Woman  Who  Toils"  is  one  of  Mrs.  Page's 
favourite  books.   .  .  . 

Italy,  though  neutral  in  name,  is  full  of  war, 
and,  to  my  joy,  anything  but  neutral — perfectly 
mad  for  England,  perfectly  mad  for  France. 
The  Germans  go  nowhere.  Italy  has  over  a  mil- 
lion men  mobilised  and,  my  dear,  such  picturesque 
men !  If  one  did  not  know  how  true  the  contrary 
is,  it  would  seem  as  though  they  were  preparing 
a  game  of  war  for  an  illustrated  book!  Brilliant 
soldier  dresses — blues  and  reds,  with  lackadaisical 
plumes — debonnaire  soldiers,  gay  soldier  boys  and 
fine  looking  officers — the  Italian  sunlight,  the  blue, 
blue  sky  overhead.  .  .  .  One  cannot  help  but  pray 
that  the  stern  northern  battlefields  will  not  swal- 
low up  Italy's  army  in  their  dreary  trenches. 

I  met  Marion  Crawford's  first  wife  that  same 
day,  and  she,  too,  took  the  trouble  to  tell  me  that 
**The  Woman  Who  Toils"  was  one  of  Marion 
Crawford's  favourite  books.  How  kind  people 
are  I  I  never  shall  be  known  by  anything  but 
"The  Woman  Who  Toils";  it  seems  to  be  uni- 
versally known.  That  is  because  it  is  a  human 
document,  written  from  facts. 

I  dined  and  lunched  at  the  Embassy  whilst  in 
Rome,  and  met  the  Spanish  Ambassador,  who 
was  charming;  and  Mrs.  Page  took  me  to  see 
Sir  E.  Rennell  Rodd.  I  had  a  private  interview 
with  him  and  enjoyed  it  immensely.  ... 

After  a  short  ten  days  of  beautiful  skies,  won- 


136  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

derful  walks  and  drives,  after  a  vision  of  the 
Campagna  that  I  shall  never  forget,  I  packed  a 
steamer  trunk  and  came  back  to  Paris,  leaving  my 
maid  with  my  trunks  to  join  me  at  Genoa. 

Rome  to  Paris — two  nights  and  a  day — back 
again  into  this  grey  winter  city  at  its  Christmas- 
time, when  war  is  written  everywhere.  Never 
had  it  seemed  to  me  so  precious  and  so  deeply 
*'home."  I  cannot  tell  you  how  sweet  it  was  to 
me  to  go  back  into  my  little  blue  and  white  room, 
to  see  the  crimsoning  morning  on  Christmas  Eve 
red  over  the  roofs  where  frost  had  laid  a  cover  of 
white.  This  winter  mist  is  peculiarly  sympathetic 
here,  and  everything  about  Paris  seemed  more 
adorable  to  me  than  ever  before. 

This  afternoon  we  are  all  going  to  tea  with 
Gertrude  Stein,  the  Cubist,  the  title  of  whose  last 
book  is  "Tender  Buttons" — if  you  know  what 
that  means. 

I  suppose  you  know  that  Miss  Enid  Yar- 
del  has  been  doing  perfectly  magnificent  work. 
She  has  been  the  means  of  helping  to  support 
from  five  hundred  to  a  thousand  people  in  this 
dreadful  crisis.  And  speaking  of  it  all,  let  me  tell 
you  that  I  have  not  heard  one  complaint,  not  one, 
from  ruined  families  and  from  those  from  whom 
all  has  been  taken.  The  only  mention  that  I  have 
heard  of  money  and  poverty  and  denial  Is  from 
rich  Americans;  they  have  spoken  of  their  re- 
duced  incomes,  and  have  complained,  but  here, 
there  is  not  one  sound.  The  other  day  I  heard 
from  one  of  my  friends  who  has  lost  five  sons 
and  all  her  fortune.     I  heard  from  her  because 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         137 

she  is  interested  in  a  work  of  charity  and  wanted 
some  advice.  I  mention  these  facts  because  they 
give  one  pause.  An  American  woman  said  to  me : 
"I  think  that  any  American  who  comes  out  of  this 
crisis  with  his  income  what  it  was  before  the 
war  is  an  'honte,'  a  disgrace.  What  have  we 
done,"  she  said,  "to  show  we  took  part  in  what 
others  are  enduring — I  mean  to  say,  what  have 
we  done  that  has  cost  us  anything  at  all?" 

Next  week  I  leave  for  Nice,  to  go  down  and 
stay  with  Mother  until  I  sail.  It  has  not  seemed 
real  to  me  that  if  God  spares  me  I  shall  see  you 
again  so  soon — I  have  not  believed  it  true.  When 
I  left  you  I  felt  that  it  was  for  ever,  that  I  should 
never  see  you  again — perhaps  that  is  so,  and  yet, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  probabilities  are  that  a 
better  future  than  that  is  in  store,  and  with  this 
idea  I  am  letting  myself  begin  to  realise  the  fact 
that  you  are  there  on  that  other  Continent  alive 
and  well,  and  that  I  shall  have  the  inexpressible 
happiness  of  seeing  you  once  more.  Tremendous 
lessons  have  been  set  before  me  since  June — I 
could  not  hope  to  say  that  I  have  learned  them, 
it  would  be  too  much  to  say,  would  it  not?  But 
I  can  at  least  say  that  I  have  read  them  through 
attentively  and  tried  to  take  some  of  them  to 
heart.  I  think  we  are  all  graver  and  that  our 
natures  must  have  deepened  by  the  contemplation 
of  the  sufferings  of  others;  how  great  these  suf- 
ferings have  been;  the  nobility  and  the  grandeur 
of  the  little  country  that  we  as  a  country  have 
stood  up  and  seen  wiped  out;  the  industry  and 
patience,  the  superb  courage  of  the  French;  the 


138  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

English  response,  the  magnificent  handling  of  the 
military  question  at  sea  and  overseas  by  the  Brit- 
ish Empire ;  the  threatening  of  peaceful  England, 
the  touch  of  the  invasion  of  those  never  before 
insulted  or  ravaged  shores;  how  grave  it  is,  how 
great  it  is  I  The  graves  that  fill  this  land,  the 
trenches  piled  thick  and  high  with  men  who  have 
died  for  an  idea,  because  they  were  called,  un- 
complainingly; that  stern  courageous  Front  set 
toward  an  enemy  whom  some  of  them  never  even 
saw.  Innocent,  simple-minded  men  brought  from 
the  desert,  brought  from  the  land  of  temples,  and 
across  thousands  and  thousands  of  miles  to  fight 
for  an  empire  not  even  their  own  by  blood.  In 
a  land  that  can  never  be  theirs.  If  without  com- 
plaint, without  cowardice,  simple  people  can  so 
die,  surely  we  of  the  more  civilised  lands,  and 
with  everything  In  our  favour,  should  be  able  un- 
complainingly to  live? 

This  will  be  my  last  letter  from  France.  I 
know  how  anxious  you  will  be  to  hear  from  me 
viva  voce,  something  of  what  I  have  seen,  but, 
you  see,  I  have  told  it  all  to  you  far  better  than 
I  can  ever  speak  of  it  again. 

Always  yours  devotedly, 

M.  V.  V. 

New  York,  Jan.  30th,  191 5. 

My  dear  Mother, 

I  have  just  received  a  long  letter  from  the 
Marquise  de  S.,  and  It  is  so  Indicative  of  the  spirit 
of  the  women  of  France  at  this  moment  that  I 
don't  think  I  can  do  better  than  quote  It  as  It 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         139 

stands.     I  am  sure  you  will  be  interested  to  read 
it. 

To  Miss  Marie  Van  Vorst. 

"Paris,  15  Jan.,  1915. 

"My  dear  Friend, 

"Thank  you  for  your  dear  letter  and  for  your 
gentle  concern  for  my  health  and  comfort. 

"My  life  holds  many  difficulties  and  much  that 
is  inexpressibly  painful  to  support;  but  a  soldier's 
wife  and  a  soldier's  mother  has  a  strong  source 
from  which  to  draw  her  courage. 

"You  kindly  asked  me  how  I  spent  Christmas 
and  the  first  day  of  this  New  Year.  The  idea  of 
Christmas,  merry  Christmas,  was  depressing. 
The  clouds  seemed  dark  and  low  and  crushing,  the 
atmosphere  was  heavy  with  doubt,  pain  and  un- 
shed tears.  The  streets  were  full  of  poor  crippled 
soldiers  in  worn,  ragged  uniforms,  but  with  bright 
faces,  and  there  was  no  outward  sunshine.  But, 
dear  friend,  we  women  of  France  keep  it  in  our 
hearts,  close  and  warm  beside  our  courage,  our 
hope,  our  faith,  our  love.  We  mothers  and  wives 
and  sisters  feel  that  the  moral  strength  of  our 
soldats,  our  officers,  our  dearest  and  best  who  are 
struggling  and  fighting,  must  come  from  us,  and 
with  our  heart  and  soul  we  send  them  uplifting 
help  by  our  firm  belief  in  them,  our  pride  in  their 
courage,  both  moral  and  physical,  our  tender 
ever-present  love  which  covers  them  like  great 
wings  of  strength  and  protection,  however  dark 
or  discouraging  may  be  their  condition.  We 
make  them  feel  sure  that  the  ceaseless  prayers 
that  we  offer  to  God  for  them  will  be  answered  ere 


I40  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

long  with  Victory  and  peace  and  delicious  reunion 
with  those  they  love.  And  most  of  all  they  must 
never  suspect  that  our  hearts  are  sad  and  lonely 
and  hungry,  and  life  a  burden  because  of  their 
absence.  So  no  matter  how  bitter  our  struggles, 
we  must  ever  have  the  rays  of  warm,  tender  sun- 
shine coming  from  our  hearts  to  theirs.  They 
watch  for  this,  they  need  It,  they  live  on  it;  and 
we  never  fail  them.  When  at  first  I  was  alone,  I 
trembled,  I  was  weary  and  lost  without  the  strong, 
gentle  young  arm  that  had  ever  been  beside  me, 
and  I  wondered  how  I  could  live  without  It,  when 
one  day,  about  six  weeks  after  my  dear  son  had 
left  me,  I  received  a  letter  which  said:  *Each 
day  we  go  further  and  further  away  from  you, 
I  miss  so  terribly  your  strength.  I  can  cheerfully 
endure  all  kinds  of  miseries  and  the  discomforts 
of  a  soldler^s  life,  but  my  hands  are  always  reach- 
ing out  to  you  for  strength  and  comfort  of  mind.* 
This  was  a  revelation  to  me,  so  the  little  card  had 
told  me  my  path.  I  then  made  a  vow  with  my 
heart  that  never  would  I  look  forward  In  thought 
to  any  evil  that  could  come  to  the  dear  son — at 
least  my  moral  force  should  be  ready  for  any 
battle.  Then  I  gave  him  to  God,  and  have  ever 
since  kept  a  calm  courage  which  I  know  has  been 
a  force  to  him,  and  has  helped  me  keep  my  vibrat- 
ing nerves  under  control. 

**You  are  perhaps  wondering  what  connection 
this  has  with  your  question  about  my  Christmas. 
It  Is  simply,  dear,  the  prelude  to  tell  you  why  I 
could  endure  the  anguish,  the  utter  loneliness  of 
that  day.     In  the  afternoon  of  Christmas  Eve, 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         141 

I  went  to  a  convent  which  has  been  transformed 
Into  an  ambulance.  I  went  to  take  the  poor  men 
cakes  and  sweets  for  their  Christmas  dinner.  I 
knew  the  Mere  Superieure  well,  and  she  begged 
me  to  stay  and  have  a  little  dinner  with  her,  and 
then  assist  with  a  few  others  at  the  midnight 
Mass  for  the  soldiers.  I  was  delighted.  All  day 
the  dread  of  that  evening  alone  with  my  sweet  sad 
souvenirs  of  those  other  joyous  Christmas  Eves 
had  hung  heavily  over  me.  After  a  little  meal, 
the  good  Mere  took  me  Into  the  ward  of  the 
seriously  sick  soldiers.  I  spoke  a  little  word  to 
each,  and  then  we  went  into  the  pretty,  dark  old 
chapel.  A  soft,  dim,  religious  light  pervaded  the 
entire  chapel,  but  after  a  moment  our  eyes  were 
drawn  towards  the  Altar,  which  was  draped  with 
flags  and  brilliantly  Illuminated  by  many  flickering 
candles.  On  each  side  of  the  altar  were  grouped 
the  soldiers  (those  who  could  walk)  and  the  sis- 
ters, the  nurses.  The  Messe  was  sung  by  them, 
and  oh  so  heartily  and  religiously  I  The  soldiers 
had  been  learning  the  music  for  a  week.  Then 
came  the  Holy  Communion,  and  every  soldier 
partook  of  It.  Many  of  them  walked  with  difii- 
culty,  but  they  helped  each  other,  and  all  had 
the  Blessed  Sacrament.  There  was  great  peace 
depicted  on  each  face  as  they  returned  to  their 
seats.  When  the  Mass  was  finished,  the  priest 
walked  to  the  door,  followed  by  the  soldiers.  The 
Mere  was  awaiting  them  and  gave  to  each  a 
lighted  candle,  and  then  they  commenced  to  sing 
and  marched  slowly  into  the  ward  of  the  seriously 
ill  men.     The  priest  stopped  before  the  bed  of 


142  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

each,  said  a  little  prayer,  and  gave  each  poor 
suffering  soul  the  Holy  Communion,  the  Bread  of 
Life.  The  priest  was  followed  by  the  soldiers, 
each  with  his  candle,  by  whose  dim  light  we  saw 
the  pale  faces,  weary  and  worn,  but  illuminated 
with  the  joy  that  they  also  might  receive  this 
great  consolation.  After  this  beautiful  ceremony 
was  finished,  and  while  we  were  still  all  kneeling, 
the  priest  gave  the  Benediction,  and  then  slowly 
left  the  ward,  the  soldiers  following,  chanting. 
I  can  give  you  no  idea  of  the  wonderful  beauty 
and  solemnity  of  this  service.  We  were  all  im- 
pressed by  its  'perfect  peace.'  We  hardly  spoke 
on  leaving  the  ward,  but  with  a  silent  pressure 
of  the  hand  we  each  one  returned  to  his  home 
feeling  we  had  been  very  near  the  Mercy  Seat  of 
Christ. 

"I  had  promised  my  dear  son  to  go  to  the 
Communion  at  9  o'clock,  at  the  hour  that  he  could 
receive  it  in  his  regiment;  so  I  had  little  sleep, 
and  when  the  day  broke  I  went  out  in  stillness 
and  silence  to  meet  the  soul  of  my  dear  son  wait- 
ing to  find  mine  for  our  Holy  Office.  Need  I  tell 
you  more  of  my  Christmas?  I  forgot  that  I  was 
old  and  alone,  and  only  remembered  that  it  was 
the  fete  of  our  Lord,  who  had  come  ici-bas  to 
protect  us  all.  Many  dear  hearts  came  to  cheer 
me  all  the  day.  Pray,  dear  friend,  that  what- 
ever may  come,  this  peace  may  never  forsake 
me. 

*'I  send  you  our  most  affectionate  souvenirs. 
My  boy  often  asks  for  your  news.  .   .  . 

'T.S. — This  a.m.  the  sad  news  of  the  death 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         143 

of  two  nephews  has  come  to  me,  and  another  who 
left  with  his  brothers,  who  are  both  killed,  is  a 
prisoner,  poor  dear,  and  they  have  cut  off  one 
of  his  legs.     Only  God  knows   our  sufferings." 

New  York,  Feb.  191 5. 

Dearest  Mother, 

It  is  impossible  for  us  not  to  realise  that  the 
eyes  and  the  attention  of  the  Powers  at  war  on 
the  other  side  of  the  ocean  are  fixed  and  fas- 
tened upon  us  with  intensity,  with  anxiety,  and 
were  at  first  so  fixed  with  hope  and  belief.  I 
speak  of  the  French  and  English,  the  one  speak- 
ing our  own  language,  to  whom  we  are  neither 
foreigners  nor  aliens,  with  whom  we  are  kin  by 
race  and  speech,  by  ancestry  and  by  tradition. 
The  other  whose  friendship  for  us  in  the  mo- 
ment of  our  struggle  for  Independence  is  a  thing 
that  no  American  should  forget. 

These  peoples  have  seen  us  from  the  begin- 
ning of  this  struggle  manifest  a  certain  ready 
generosity,  such  as  the  American  people  have 
never  failed  to  display  in  crises  and  disasters, 
the  unbuttoning  of  the  general  pocket  to  relieve 
suffering,  the  bigness  of  heart  which  evinces  it- 
self in  the  bigness  of  its  donated  sums. 

This  they  have  seen.  They  have  felt  the  wave 
of  protest  mild  indeed,  compared  to  the  gravity 
of  the  crimes.  They  have  looked  and  waited, 
expected  and  hoped,  and  I  might  say  appealed, 
and  this  is  all  they  have  seen.  The  great  Ameri- 
can Republic,  sealing  her  eyes  to  the  dazzling 
horrors  of  the  distant  wars,  has  turned  herself 


144  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

to  her  own  affairs.  From  the  very  moment  that 
the  neutrality  of  Belgium  was  violated,  from  the 
moment  the  treaties  regarding  her  welfare  and 
security  were  insulted  and  trampled  upon,  the 
Germans  offended  every  principle,  outraged  every 
ideal  for  which  the  United  States  stands.  And 
further,  the  German's  manner  of  entering  into  the 
kingdom  of  Belgium,  their  undoubted  and  un- 
disputed acts  of  hideous  brutality,  crime,  mutila- 
tion and  slaughter  have  outraged,  offended,  and 
disgusted  and  horrified  every  humane  and  truly 
American  citizen  of  the  United  States. 

No  general  protest  from  us,  from  the  millions 
of  women  who  feel  intensely  and  with  all  their 
hearts  disapproval  of  Germany's  war  and  her 
methods  of  warfare — no  protestation  from  the 
citizens  of  this  free  and  humanitarian  Republic 
has  gone  forth.  Had  a  general  protest  been 
launched  at  the  very  beginning,  it  is  probable  that 
the  subsequent  course  of  events  would  have  been 
changed. 

Of  the  ninety  millions  of  citizens  of  the  United 
States,  are  the  Germans  the  most  active,  the  most 
intense,  the  most  ahve,  and  the  most  vital?  Is 
it  possible  that  such  a  thing  as  this  can  be  true? 
If  this  is  not  true,  how  can  it  be  possible  that 
the  national  voice,  which  the  conflicting  peoples 
have  listened  in  vain  to  hear  uplifted,  when  it 
speaks,  speaks  alone  for  commercial  interests — 
can  we  say  to  satisfy  the  greed  of  a  certain  class? 

That  our  commerce,  that  our  industries  should 
have  free  scope,  that  in  no  wise  we  should  be 
either  crippled  or  our  prosperity  imperilled  is 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         145 

just  and  right,  but  at  this  crucial  and  delicate 
moment  of  the  history  of  nations  it  behoves  this 
great  people  to  be  extremely  careful  as  to  her 
methods  and  her  modes  of  procedure.  Ameri- 
cans have  not  hesitated  to  judge  Germans:  we 
must  not  hesitate  to  judge  ourselves.  In  order 
to  purchase  a  few  interned  vessels  in  the  har- 
bour, a  purchase  by  which  the  Germans  would 
be  supplied  with  further  means  of  carrying  on 
their  detested  war,  the  forcing  of  an  issue  at 
this  moment  over  the  protests  of  England,  over 
the  protests  of  France,  is  like  driving  the  very 
prow  of  the  vessel  of  our  State  through  the 
hearts  and  vitals  of   France  and  England. 

We  have  been  called  the  one  nation  in  the  world 
where  public  opinion  cannot  be  stifled  either  by 
plutocracy  or  autocracy.  It  has  been  said  of 
us  that  we  are  idealists,  still  one  begins  to  doubt 
it,  and  to  fear  for  the  materialism  that  is  chok- 
ing us,  and  to  draw  the  likeness  between  this  ma- 
terialism and  the  qualities  that  the  German  Em- 
pire possesses,  and  which  has  made  them  offen- 
sive to  us,  and  made  their  propaganda  such  a 
dangerous  factor  at  this  moment  in  the  politics 
of  our  country. 


To  the  Marquise  de  Sers,  Paris. 

New  York,  February  loth,  1915. 

Dear  Friend, 

It  seems  so  strange  to  be  here  again.  I  al- 
most feel  as  though  I  had  died  and  gone  into  an- 
other world!    After  all  the  excitement  and  em(? 


146  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

tlon  of  the  past  few  months,  after  such  strain 
and  such  hard,  Impersonal  work,  it  seems  singu- 
lar to  be  in  a  country  where  the  War  is  not  the 
chief  interest.  But  I  can't  say  that  it  is  not  a 
vital  interest,  even  here. 

At  first,  I  was  afraid  to  see  people,  for  fear 
that  they  should  feel  differently  to  the  way  I  feel. 
But  I  need  have  had  no  fear.  They  call  America 
neutral — the  Government  calls  it  neutral:  Amer- 
ica is  not  neutral.  I  have  not  heard  one  voice 
that  was  not  strongly  for  the  Allies.  Indeed  any 
one  with  pro-German  sentiments  is  persona  non 
grata.  They  are  not  even  invited  to  the  houses 
where  I  go. 

I  found  myself  dazed  when  I  landed.  Even 
the  fourteen  days  at  sea — (I  must  tell  you  that  on 
board  was  a  group  of  newspaper  correspondents, 
among  them  a  man  named  Archibald.  He  was 
a  pro-German,  if  you  like !  Some  time,  some- 
where, I  think  the  Kaiser  must  have  looked  at 
him  or  spoken  to  him,  and  from  that  moment 
Germany  had  him,  heart  and  soul.) — Even  the 
fourteen  days  at  sea  were  not  sufficient  to  sep- 
arate me  from  the  Interests  and  the  palpitation 
of  the  countries  I  have  left.  I  won't  say  I  can't 
settle  down  here;  I  am  still  dazed. 

My  rooms  at  the  hotel  were  full  of  the  most 
beautiful  flowers,  and  it  seemed  so  wonderful  to 
have  friends  like  these  I  find.  I  had  forgotten, 
during  these  few  months,  personal  relations  and 
even  friendly  Interchange  of  thought.  .  .  . 

I  shall  not  be  able  to  go  out  here  as  I  used  to 
I  am  glad  I  only  brought  two  dinner  dresses. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  147 

I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  put  them  on.  Before  my 
eyes  are  still  the  spectacles  of  the  wounded  and 
the  dying,  as  I  have  left  them  behind  at  the  Am- 
bulance. I  cannot  take  life  as  a  social  thing,  I 
am  sure,  whilst  I  am  here. 

The  American  women,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  are 
doing  all  they  can  for  the  Allies.  They  are 
knitting  like  mad,  to  begin  with.  Hundreds  of 
thousands  of  garments  have  been  sent  across  the 
seas.  This  you  know,  as  you  yourself  are  re- 
ceiving them  all  the  time.  There^s  not  an  en- 
tertainment given  that  is  not  for  the  Russians, 
the  Poles,  the  Belgians,  the  French  Red  Cross, 
the  British  Red  Cross.  Money  seems  to  pour 
out  in  one  general  stream  towards  you  all  over 
there.  I  am  glad — I  am  so  glad.  And  as  for 
the  volunteer  nurses  and  doctors,  why,  theyM 
embark  for  France  and  England  in  bands  every 
week! 

Here  in  my  little  sitting-room,  I  have  the  pic- 
ture Mr.  Herrick  gave  me  of  himself,  and  a  pic- 
ture of  the  Ambulance ;  and  I  hark  back  to  France 
with  all  my  soul.  .  .  . 

As  for  you,  I  know  that  in  your  heart  and  mind 
Is  just  one  thought — the  safety  of  that  beloved 
son  of  yours ;  and  somehow,  we  all  feel  here  that 
your  love  is  so  great  and  so  enveloping,  that  your 
prayers  are  so  constant  and  so  full  of  faith,  that 
he  will  be  spared  to  you.  We  all  feel  it.  We 
have  all  said  it  a  thousand  times. 

I  must  tell  you  just  a  little  touching  thing. 
The  other  day,  I  came  in  late  and  went  up  to 
MoUie  Andrews'  room.    She  was  dressing  for  the 


148  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

opera  and  stood  there  with  her  opera  cloak 
thrown  around  her  shoulders,  looking  radiantly 
lovely.     I  said  to  her: 

*'Mollie,  I've  had  some  bad  news." 

And  before  I  could  speak,  the  tears  rushed 
to  her  eyes  and  she  put  out  her  hand  and  said: 

"Oh,  don't  tell  me  that  Captain  Dadvisard  is 
killed!  Don't  tell  me  that:  I  couldn't  bear  to 
hear  it!" 

Well,  of  course  I  hadn^t  heard  that  dreadful 
news,  I  am  glad  to  say.  It  w^as  something  else, 
and  I  hastened  to  tell  her  so.  I  mention  this 
to  let  you  see  how  we  all  think  of  you  and  how 
deeply  we  take  his  safety  to  heart. 

With  my  devoted  love, 

As  ever, 

M. 


To  Mrs,   Theodore  Haviland^  Limoges, 

New  York,  February  20th,  1915. 

Dear  Julie, 

I  am  sure  that  it  would  gladden  the  hearts  of 
all  you  women  over  there,  working  as  you  are 
night  and  day  over  the  wounded,  if  you  could 
see  the  interest  that  the  women  here  take  in  all 
that  is  going  on  across  the  sea. 

I  have  not  talked  a  great  deal  of  my  experi- 
ences, because  they  were  so  deep  and  so  heart- 
rending that  words  are  slow  to  come;  but  when- 
ever I  have  been  willing  to  say  anything  at  all 
about  the  scenes  of  grief  and  suffering,  the  sym- 


COMTE  HENRI  DADVISARD 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  149 

pathy  and  the  tenderness  expressed  by  our  friends 
has  been  gratifying  in  the   extreme.   .  .  . 

I  know  you  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  "Big 
Tremaine''  is  one  of  the  "best  sellers,"  and  they 
say  that  if  It  had  not  been  war  time,  it  would 
have  gone  up  into  the  hundreds  of  thousands. 
Isn't  that  just  too  mean   for  words?  .  .  . 

I  have  been  asked  to  meet  the  New  York  com- 
mittee for  the  American  Ambulance  in  Paris,  and 
to  say  a  few  words  about  the  hospital  to  the 
Board  In  Mrs.  Whitney  Warren's  studio. 

As  I  write,  it  Is  snowing  hard,  but  the  streets 
are  ablaze  with  light.  The  brlUIance  of  Broad- 
way and  Fifth  Avenue  came  to  me  like  a  shock, 
after  darkened  Paris  and  London. 

With  much  love  to  all. 

As  ever, 

M. 

New  York,  March,  191 5. 

My  dear  Mother, 

A  well-known  German  writer  recently  referred 
to  us  as  a  purely  commercial  nation.  We  began 
by  being  New  Englanders  and  Yankees.  That 
we  know  sharp  bargains  and  drive  them  is  true, 
but  we  are  also,  and  have  always  been,  idealists, 
and  it  has  not  yet  been  declared  to  us  that  the 
reasons  for  the  present  war,  forced  upon  Eu- 
rope by  Germany,  are  not  purely  materialistic. 
We  are  also,  as  a  nation,  inclined  to  believe  that 
it  is  not  the  purely  materialistic  things  that  tri- 
umph. 

Germany  is  making  us  a  pathetic  appeal  that 


150  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

her  people  may  be  nourished  and  fed.  We  are 
far  from  her,  with  her  quarrels  and  her  mili- 
tarism. Militarism  we,  as  a  nation,  repudiate. 
We  have  so  far  formed  the  public  opinion  that 
Germany  has  brought  the  war  upon  the  world. 
Our  ears  are  ringing  with  the  cries  of  the  Belgians 
and  of  the  Poles,  for  whose  famine  and  desola- 
tion Germany  is  responsible. 

The  American  people  want  neither  disturb- 
ances nor  war.  We  are  not  inflammatory,  nor 
quick  to  take  issue,  nor  are  we  suddenly  moved. 
We  are  a  big  body,  and  when  we  move  the  effect 
will  be  proportionate.  Made  up,  as  we  are,  of 
many  peoples,  our  voice  has  a  peculiar  richness 
of  tone;  we  absorb  many  colours,  and  the  com- 
posite hue  is  deep.  We  are  a  crucible  into  which 
the  varied  races  have  been  poured,  but  the  re- 
sult— though  our  ingredients  are  conglomerate — 
will  be  found  to  be  strikingly  unified. 

Our  Press  does  not  inflame,  it  reflects.  Our 
public  opinion  is  so  strong  that  no  Government 
or  course  of  events  can  drown  the  expressions 
of  the  American  people. 

We  will  protect  our  citizens  and  our  commerce, 
Germany  understands  what  it  will  mean  to  an- 
tagonise the  United  States.  The  question  is  one 
that  reaches  beyond  this  war  time,  that  reaches 
into  the  future,  and  its  results  to  all  peoples. 
What  happens  now  amongst  us  all  will  be  difli- 
cult  to  forget.  Let  Germany  in  her  attitude 
toward  the  United  States  be  circumspect. 

Every  thinking  German-American  regards  the 
present  situation  with  the  intensest  interest,  and 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         151 

many  discover  that  the  American  Fatherland 
grips  them  acutely.  If  the  German  Emperor,  ac- 
cording to  an  ancient  boast  of  his,  is  ruler  over 

millions  of  Germans  in  the  United  States, 

let  him  look  to  how  he  commands  and  what  he 
upholds. 

The  question  is  not  one  of  arms  and  ships 
alone.  It  is  a  question  of  commerce,  economics, 
and  of  the  wealth  and  gain  of  nations.  Every 
hour  that  we  in  America  are  thrown  more  com- 
pletely upon  ourselves  for  our  manufactories  and 
our  industries,  we  are  finding  out  the  great  im- 
portance we  are  to  ourselves,  and  what  our  iso- 
lation means  to  our  greater  commercial  self-suf- 
ficiency. 

I  don't  think  you  half  realise  over  there  the 
splendid  work  done  for  the  American  Ambulance 
by  certain  women  in  New  York.  When  the  sub- 
ject was  broached  of  an  American  Ambulance  in 
Paris,  to  be  run  by  American  citizens,  the  task 
of  raising  the  funds  was  entrusted  to  Mrs.  Bacon, 
wife  of  the  former  Ambassador.  Mrs.  Bacon 
and  Mrs.  Greenough  together  have  raised  nearly 
half  a  million  dollars — just  think  of  it! — by  frank- 
ly asking  people  to  give,  and  without  any  gen- 
eral appeal  to  the  public.  Both  Mrs.  Bacon 
and  Mrs.  Greenough  have  been  Indefatigable  and 
marvellous  In  their  concentrated  efforts.  There 
Is  no  doubt  that  by  Christmas,  19 15,  these  women 
alone  will  have  raised  far  over  a  million  dollars 
for  France. 


152  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

To  Mme.  Hugiies  Le  Roux,  Paris, 

New  York,  March  i8th,  1915. 

Dear  Bessie, 

You  can't  Imagine  what  an  exciting  thing  has 
happened  to  me.  I  want  you  to  give  me  your 
best  wishes — T  might  almost  say  your  prayers, 
for  I  shall  need  them.  I  am  going  to  do  the 
thing  which  almost  all  writers  do  at  some  period 
of  their  lives:  speak  in  public.  I  won't  say  that 
I  am  terrified.    It's  far  beyond  that. 

The  other  morning,  I  was  sitting  at  half-past 
eight,  taking  a  peaceful  cup  of  tea  with  Belle  in 
her  little  sitting-room — for  we  breakfast  together 
— when  some  one  called  me  on  the  telephone. 
(They  begin  here,  you  know,  to  call  you  on  the 
telephone  at  any  old  hour.  I've  been  waked  at 
half-past  seven;  I've  been  called  out  of  my  bath 
many  times.  But  you  know  what  the  American 
telephone  is:  it's  an  all-night  and  all-day  job.) 
Well,  the  telephone  rang  and  I  ran  to  answer 
it  with  my  teacup  In  my  hand. 

Mrs.  Robert  Bacon  was  at  the  other  end  and 
she  said  to  me: 

"I  want  you  to  speak  for  the  American  Am- 
bulance before  about  eight  hundred  people  next 
week.     Will  you?" 

That  doesn't  sound  like  anything  much,  does  It  ? 

I  drank  two  or  three  swallows  of  tea  before 
I  answered  her,  the  receiver  at  my  ear,  and  I 
felt  like  the  Mad  Hatter  at  "Alice  in  Wonder- 
land's" tea-party — in  a  dressing-gown,  with  a  tea- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         153- 

cup  and  saucer  In  my  hand.     I  almost  bit  a  piece 
out  of  the  china.     I  was  scared  stiff. 

"But  I  can't  speak  In  public,  my  dear  Mrs.< 
Bacon.     I've  never  done  so  In  my  life !" 

''Yes,  you  can.  You  spoke  at  the  committee 
meeting  the  other  day;  and  you  made  us  cry.  And 
If  you  can  make  us  cry,  you  could  move  a  New 
York  audience.     Will  you?" 

Now  I  want  to  tell  you  that  this  was  the  most 
stirring  .Invitation  I  ever  had  In  my  life.  I  felt 
right  then  and  there  that  I  could  do  It;  and  In- 
stantly, with  the  real  conferencler's  spirit,  I  said: 

"But  why  eight  hundred?  Can't  you  get  a 
thousand?" 

And  Mrs.  Bacon  laughed  and  said:  "We'll  do 
the  best  we  can." 

Well,  that's  all  right  on  the  telephone,  my 
dear;  but  I  didn't  drink  any  more  tea  or  finish 
my  breakfast.  And  now  the  reality  stares  me 
in  the  face:  that  I've  got  to  speak,  that  I  don't 
know  how,  and  that  I  shall  probably  make  a  most 
dismal  and  terrible  failure.  But  it's  for  the  Amer- 
ican Ambulance,  and  I  love  it  so  much,  and  it's 
a  real  cause  and  a  great  need.  Every  pulse 
in  my  body  beats  for  France  and  England  and 
I  am  going  to  try.  This  Is  Thursday:  I  am  to 
speak  on  Tuesday.     Wish  me  luck. 

Devotedly  yours, 
M. 


154  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

To  Mrs.  Van  Forst,  Nice, 

New  York,  March  20th,  191 5. 

Dearest  Mother, 

I  went  to  Hackensack  to-day  with  the  notes 
of  my  speech  in  my  pocket  and  I  hoped  some 
of  it  in  my  head. 

I  went  alone.  Mollle  Andrews  had  promised 
to  come  with  me  to  give  me  courage,  but  at  the 
very  last  moment  she  decided  she  was  far  too 
fond  of  me  to  go  out  and  see  me  make  a  fool  of 
myself!     But  I  am  glad  after  all  I  went  alone. 

Rolling  out  on  the  trolley,  I  grew  somewhat 
composed,  but  by  the  time  I  reached  Mary's 
house  I  was  terrified  beyond  words  and  would 
have  sold  myself  for  twenty-five  cents  to  any  one 
who  would  have  carried  me  out  of  the  state  of 
New  Jersey! 

It  was  too  odd  to  see  the  rooms  full  of  people 
who  had  come  to  hear  me  speak.  It  seemed  so 
naive  of  them,  to  gather  themselves  together  and 
go  in  and  sit  down  to  hear  me.  Of  course  you 
understand  what  I  mean!  But  that  wasn't  the 
worst  of  it.  Every  idea  I  had  ever  had  in  my 
life  vanished  away.  At  the  proper  time,  how- 
ever, I  managed  to  get  into  the  room  from  some- 
where and  to  the  little  platform  Mary  had  had 
built. 

There  were  azaleas  from  her  greenhouse  on 
the  platform,  and,  something  that  brought  me 
back  to  my  more  normal  state:  one  of  the  old 
parlour  chairs  from  my  childhood's  home.  When 
I  was  a  little  girl,  I  used  to  sit  in  it.    There  was 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  155 

something  comforting  in  the  sight  of  it.  It's 
strange  what  parts  inanimate  things  play  in  our 
lives. 

But  neither  the  azaleas  nor  the  old  chair  from 
home  could  have  given  me  the  courage  to  speak 
in  public!  Fortunately,  however,  Mary  had  con- 
ceived a  luminous  idea.  She  had  asked  a  man 
with  a  beautiful  voice  to  sing  the  ^'Marseillaise'' 
and  "Tipperary,"  and  he  was  singing  them  when 
I  came  downstairs. 

The  notes  of  that  song  and  the  thought  of 
what  its  music  meant  to  us  all  in  France  inspired 
me.  It  carried  me  out  of  myself.  The  word 
'Trance,"  the  marvellous  tune,  the  thought  that 
I  should  speak  for  France,  and  that  even  my 
modest  offering  might  be  of  some  use,  gave  me 
courage. 

Well,  I  spoke  then,  and.  Mother  dear,  I  wish 
you  had  been  there.  How  wonderful  that  would' 
have  been,  wouldn't  it,  to  have  seen  your  face 
among  those  faces.  I  watched  Frederick's.  He 
was  in  the  front  row.  Of  course  you  know  that 
there  could  not  be  a  more  touching  subject  at  this 
moment  than  that  of  the  wounded  and  dying  sol- 
diers in  the  hospitals.  Many  people  wept,  and 
after  I'd  finished  they  all  crowded  round  me. 
I  was  unconscious  of  myself  while  I  spoke,  but 
afterwards  I  trembled  so  that  I  could  hardly 
stand.  Above  all,  I  was  so  glad  Frederick  was 
pleased.  It  would  have  been  dreadful  to  have 
failed  in  his  house  and  in  his  town. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  Devon,  dear  Mary 
called  me  up  on  the  telephone.     She  said: 


156  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

"Why,  Hackensack's  perfectly  crazy  about 
your  speech!  People  have  been  calling  me  up 
from  all  over  the  town  to  thank  me  for  asking 
them,  and  a  lot  of  others  have  been  caUing  me 
up  to  know  why  I  didn^t  ask  them !" 

And  I  said:  "Mary,  do  you  think  It  was  a 
success?" 

And  she  said:  "Your  brother  says  he's  never 
heard  anything  like  It  In  his  life!"  .  .  . 

(My  dear  Mother,  you  can  take  this  for  a 
compliment  or  not,  just  as  you  please.  I  felt 
pretty  sure  that  he  never  had  heard  anything  like 
it!) 

Mary  went  on: 

"But  I'm  awfully  glad  we  didn't  sell  the  tickets, 
because  I  don't  think  it  would  be  good  taste  to 
make  people  pay  to  hear  your  sister  speak." 

And  I  told  Mary  that  I  quite  agreed  with  her. 

And  this  is  only  Saturday  night,  and  New  York 
(and  Fifth  Avenue)  isn't  HackensacL  But  never 
mind!  I  hear  the  "Marseillaise"  and  I  hear 
"TIpperary"  ringing,  ringing  in  my  head. 

God  bless  England!     Vive  la  France! 

Your  devoted  daughter, 

M. 


To  Mme.  Hugiies  he  Roux,  Paris, 

New  York,  March  24th,  1915. 

Dear  Bessie, 

I've  always  known  that  I  had  wonderful 
friends,  but  I  never  realised  how  splendid  they 
all  were  before. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         157 

When  I  was  down  In  Richmond  once,  in  the 
old  historic  church  there,  I  heard  a  negro  grand- 
father say  to  his  tiny  little  pickaninny  grandchild, 
who  stood  by  his  side: 

"Sonny,  dis  hyar  am  de  spot  whar  Patrick 
Henry  done  make  his  Big  Speech." 

And  the  little  nigger,  with  his  eyes  popping 
out  of  his  head,  asked: 

*'What  did  he-all  say,  gran'pa?" 

*'He  said:    *Gimme  liberty  an'  gimme  death.'  " 

"NVhat  did  dey  gin  him,  gran'pa?" 

(That  was  a  poser,  but  the  old  negro  was  equal 
to  it!) 

*'Why,  dey  gin  'im  bofeJ* 

Well,  when  I  made  my  "Big  Speech,"  every 
one  of  my  friends  ralhed  round  me  in  the  most 
adorable  way  you  ever  knew.  You  see,  it's  all 
very  well  to  just  toss  It  off  and  take  It  lightly,  my 
dear  Bessie;  but  you  can't  realise  what  a  truly 
big  thing  It  was  in  my  life.  You  see,  you  don't 
gather  together  (Some  500  representative  New 
Yorkers — the  best  there  are  and  the  best  we  have 
— to  bore  them  if  you  can  help  it.  You  must  re- 
member that  New  Yorkers  are  pretty  well  "fed 
up"  with  the  best,  and  It's  no  easy  thing  to  hold 
their  attention!  I  knew  this,  and  I  realised  that 
if  I  failed  .  .  .  !  It  was  the  most  serious  mo- 
ment. In  a  way,  that  I  ever  faced! 

But,  dear  Bessie,  I  had  the  moment  with  me, 
If  one  may  speak  so.  I  had  the  most  thrilling 
subject;  I  had  facts  and  experiences,  and  I  felt 
and  I  cared,     I  had  seen  too,  and  I  had  suffered 


158  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

much,  and  for  weeks  I  had  been  forgetting  about 
myself.      That  was  the  best  preparation. 

Dear  Bertha  Ralney  gave  me  a  delightful 
lunch  and  invited  all  my  best  friends.  I  walked 
up  to  Mrs.  Hammond's  house,  however,  alone 
again;  and  realised  with  all  my  heart  that  I  didn't 
want  to  disappoint  those  who  cared  for  me  or 
Mrs.  Bacon.  I  think  I  prayed.  I  was  cold  as 
ice. 

Mrs.  Hammond's  beautiful  ballroom  was  full, 
and  after  Brieux,  who  spoke  for  France,  had 
ceased,  then  I  took  courage  and  spoke,  calling  to 
mind  as  well  as  I  could  all  my  pictures  of  the 
wonderful  Ambulance. 

Over  on  the  right  were  the  people,  with  the 
exception  of  you  and  Mother  and  Mme.  de  Sers, 
whom  I  love  best  in  the  world.  Among  the  rest 
of  the  audience  people  who  had  known  me  all  my 
life;  and  many  strangers,  and  people  who  hadn't 
seen  me  for  years;  and  people  who  had  read  my 
books,  and  who  knew  me  by  name ;  and  many  who 
didn't  know  who  I  was. 

Mary  Van  Vorst  heard  a  funny  thing  just  be- 
fore I  spoke.  One  woman  said  to  another,  when 
Brieux  had  finished  speaking: 

"Well,  I  guess  this  next  won't  be  much. 
Let's  go." 

And  the  other  said:  *'0h  no;  let's  sit  It  out. 
It's  about  the  soldiers,   anyway." 

And  Mary  told  me  that  from  then  on,  they 
never  moved  until  I  had  finished,  except  to  wipe 
away  their  tears.     Wasn't  that  nice? 

But  the  wonderful  thing  was  to  see  the  faces 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         159 

of  those  people  that  I  loved.  I  can  never,  never 
forget  it  as  long  as  I  live.  You  see,  they  didn't 
know,  of  course,  whether  I  would  fail  or  not. 
How  could  they  tell?  It's  so  different  when  you 
know  a  person  well.  Nothing  very  much  that 
they  have  to  say  astonishes  you  or  carries  you 
away.  But  to  see  them  smile,  to  see  them  laugh, 
to  see  them  weep,  to  watch  the  emotion  that  you 
yourself  call  forth  on  the  faces  of  the  people  for 
whom  you  care  and  whom  you  know  so  well — 
why,  it  was  (I  think  I  may  say)  the  most  won- 
derful moment  of  my  life. 

I  had  the  most  touching  subject  in  the  world, 
in  all  the  range  of  feeling:  human  sacrifice,  hero- 
ism; what  those  wounded  men  endure,  what  they 
were,  and  the  aspect  of  the  nursing  of  the  wound- 
ed. At  any  rate,  even  as  I  write  to  you  about  it 
now,  I  am  cold  all  through.  .  .  . 

No  one  moved  from  the  time  I  began  to  speak 
until  I  had  ceased,  except,  as  I  said  before,  to 
wipe  away  their  tears.  And  even  when  I  fin- 
ished, they  didn't  move.  There  was  silence  all 
over  the  room. 

I  don't  know  if  you  would  call  It  a  success. 
That  word  doesn't  interest  me  very  much.  Mrs. 
Bacon  told  me  afterwards  that  she  had  received 
a  great  deal  of  money,  very  generous  cheques, 
after  my  speech.  I  only  know  that  I  can't  thank 
her  enough  for  letting  me  do  this.  Apart  from 
nursing  at  the  bedsides  of  those  wonderful  men, 
nothing  in  my  life  has  ever  given  me  a  deeper 
feeling  of  pleasure. 


i6o  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

I  know  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  it  went 
off  so  well.    I  cabled  you  and  Mother  to-day. 

As  ever, 

M. 

May  13th,  191 5. 

Dearest  Mother, 

I  have  let  boat  after  boat  go  out  without  a 
letter  to  you,  and  on  each  one  of  these  boats 
for  weeks  I  have  been  intending  to  sail  myself.. 
At  the  last  moment  one  after  another  of  the 
people  here,  beginning  with  my  brother  Fred- 
erick, have  begged  and  besought  of  me  not  to 
risk  a  life  that  seems  to  be  precious  to  them,  and 
I  have,  like  a  coward  and  like  a  traitor  to  duty, 
been  weak.  Of  course,  although  the  time  seems 
very  long,  you  must  remember  that  I  have  said 
on  each  occasion,  ''It  is  only  seven  days  more, 
and  then  I  shall  sail."  Finally  our  choice  was 
made  for  the  Lusitania,  and  I  can  assure  you 
that  in  spite  of  rumours  no  one  had  the  slightest 
fear,  but  all  the  time  I  personally  had  a  strange 
feeling  of  unwillingness  to  embark.  You  know 
that  I  had  originally  booked  my  passage  on  the 
La  Burgoyne,  and  she  went  down;  then  on  the 
Minnewaska,  and  she  went  down.  And  I  should 
have  sailed  on  the  Lusitania  without  any  doubt 
had  it  not  been  that  MoUie  Andrews  was  married 
on  the  Thursday,  and  in  this  way  left  her  sister 
Belle  entirely  alone.  I  felt  sorry  for  her  sudden 
loneliness,  and  knew  that  although  she  suffered  a 
great  deal,  she  is  very  reserved.  Remembering 
how  I  suffered  regarding  Violet,  I  thought  I  would 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         i6i 

stay  one  more  week,  just  to  be  a  little  comfort  to 
her,  so  on  Thursday  morning  I  went  down  and 
got  back  my  passage  money,  very  much  to  the 
dissatisfaction  of  the  company,  who  urged  me  to 
go  in  a  beautiful  room  that  they  had  secured 
for  me.  I  then  went  up  to  see  Frederick,  but  I 
must  say  still  with  a  great  longing  toward  that 
comfortable  vast  ship.  Frederick  was  absolutely 
decisive,  and  he  himself  sent  the  telegram  say- 
ing that  he  forbade  me  to  sail. 

The  Philadelphia  went  out  the  following  week, 
and  I  was  all  ready  to  sail  cr  her,  but  In  the 
meantime  those  horrible  brutes  'lad  sent  the  Lu- 
sitania  to  the  bottom,  and  Thuisday  night  again 
Frederick  called  me  up  and  asked  me,  as  a  favour,' 
not  to  sail:  so  did  Bessie  and  so  did  her  husband. 
What  could  I  do?  I  feel  that  you  are  lying  there 
frail  and  wretched,  waiting  for  me,  longing  for 
me,  and  I  cannot  conceive  of  a  more  trying  sit- 
uation than  yours,  a  situation,  I  am  sure,  borne 
with  the  greatest  sweetness  and  patience.  It 
seems  to  me  a  long  crucifixion  that  you  have  gonq 
through  these  last  months.  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  forget  what  you  must  have  suffered  and  en- 
dured, and  all  the  pleasure  and  success  that  I 
have  had  will  be  for  ever  clouded  by  the  feeling 
that  I  have  failed  In  my  duty,  and  that  I  have 
caused  you  needless  suffering  and  anxiety. 

I  have  been  afraid  to  sail  now  on  account  of 
the  relations  between  America  and  Germany,  and 
by  the  time  you  get  this  something  will  be  defi- 
nite. I  feel  too  dreadfully,  also,  about  Italy  go- 
ing to  war,  and  nothing  seems  stable  or  certain. 


1 62  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

I  am  very  nervous  and  very  tired  and  excited, 
feeling  I  have  been  a  coward  and  unworthy  in 
considering  myself  above  others.  I  am  afraid 
there  will  be  no  blessing  for  me  now. 

Bessie  has  come  at  last  to  this  hotel  with  her 
husband.  She  is  having  a  wonderful  time,  most 
amusing  and  interesting,  and  is  dined  and  sought 
after  everywhere.  She  has  written  all  the  best 
part  of  her  husband's  articles  that  have  gone  to 
France,  and  has  worded  all  the  long  cables.  It 
is  extraordinary  how  splendid  her  mind  is,  how 
^qual  she  seems  to  the  situations.  His  lectures 
here  have  been  very  much  liked;  he  has  been 
successful  and  delightful. 

We  are  thinking  of  nothing  but  the  situation 
caused  by  the  Lusitania  horror.  Our  President's 
calm  waiting  and  his  apparent  unwillingness  to 
force  an  issue,  whilst  no  doubt  best  for  the  coun- 
try, has  filled  a  vast  majority  with  impatience  and 
something  like  fury  in  many  people's  hearts.  I 
think  he  is  wise  and  that  he  will  handle  the  affair 
in  the  best  way.  Certainly  the  American  people 
will  stand  nothing  more  from  Germany.  There 
has  been  a  strong  anti-Wilson  party,  but  now 
they  are  more  united,  because  his  note  to  Ger- 
many expresses  to  them  the  idea  that  we  will 
brook  absolutely  nothing  from  them  further,  and 
has  shown  our  abhorrence  of  their  deeds. 

My  friends  telegraphed  me  and  wrote  me  re- 
garding the  Lusitania,  and  everybody  has  been 
most  sweet  and  kind.  My  heart  is  longing  for 
France,  for  the  activity  and  the  usefulness  and 


THE  HON.  ROBERT  BACON 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         163 

for  you,  and  to  my  duties  and  tender  interests 
there. 

With  deepest  and  tenderest  love, 

M. 

To  Mrs.   Theodore  Haviland,  Limoges. 

New  York,  May  20th,  191 5. 

Dear  Julie, 

The  deepest  grief  that  the  war  has  brought 
to  me  has  just  come  to  me  now. 

I  went  down  to  the  Colony  Club  to  a  luncheon 
to-day,  and  as  I  went  in,  I  saw,  standing  by  the 
door,  Mr.  Bacon,  an  old  friend  of  Cousin  Lot- 
tie's.    I  said  to  him  quite  cheerfully: 

'■'Have  you  news  from  France?  How  is  Henry 
Dadvisard?" 

"Henry  Dadvisard?  Why,  don't  you  know? 
He  has  been  killed." 

Oh,  it  doesn't  seem  as  though  it  could  be  true  I 

I  don't  know  Mr.  Bacon  at  all  well,  but  I  just 
seized  his  hand,  and  the  tears  poured  down  over 
my  cheeks.  It  was  so  strange  to  hear  it  there 
like  that,  in  that  American  club,  so  far  away 
from  my  dear  friend,  whose  anguish  and  grief 
I  can't  contemplate.  It  doesn't  seem  that  it  can 
be  real.  I  know  of  no  one  more  alive,  more  liv- 
ing; I  know  no  man  with  more  brilliant  promise; 
and  what  this  blow  will  be  to  Cousin  Lottie  I 
dread  to  think. 

I  had  not  intended  to  sail  for  Europe  for  some 
time,  but  I  shall  go  this  week.  Not  that  I  can 
be  of  any  comfort  or  any  consolation;  but  at  least 
my  presence  and  my  tenderness  will  be  there.     I 


1 64  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

shall  telegraph  her  to-day  to  say  that  I  shall  sail 
on  Saturday.  With  love  to  all, 

As  ever, 
M. 
To  Miss  M,  Van  Forst, 

Toulouse,  June,  191 5. 

My  dear  Friend, 

I  thank  you  very  tenderly  for  your  card  of 
sympathy  in  my  immense  grief.  I  have  suffered 
so  much  that  hope  of  better  days  is  difficult  for 
me  to  understand.  You  will  remember  that  my 
dear  boy  was  in  Algeria  for  several  years,  and  on 
returning  often  repeated  the  Arab  proverbs  to  me. 
One  in  particular  was  often  on  his  lips:  "Only 
God  and  my  own  heart  know  what  I  suffer."  God 
knows  and  I  bow  my  suffering  head  and  accept 
his  will,  and  as  the  long  nights  awaken  into  day  I 
feel  that  each  one  draws  me  nearer  my  blessed 
rest,  my  precious  reunion  with  my  best  beloved. 
So  I  am  waiting  tenderly  with  many  a  tear  and 
many  a  prayer  for  the  lifting  of  the  slender  veil 
which  separates  us,  when  I  also  shall  live  with 
them  in  the  light  of  eternal  day,  in  the  sunshine  of 
God's  presence. 

Sadly  and  aff.  yours, 

C.  DE  Sers. 

To  Miss  B,  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 

Clarges  Street,  London,  June  ist,  1915. 

Dearest  Belle, 

You  will  think  it  strange,  perhaps,  when  I  say 
that  I  regret  very  much  that  you  did  not  sail 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN        165. 

with  me,  in  view  of  the  danger  of  this  strange 
crossing!  ...  It  was  a  curious  sensation  to  find, 
as  the  days  went  on,  and  the  danger  (real  or 
imaginary)  grew  and  deepened,  that  one's  atti- 
tude of  mind  adapted  itself  to  circumstances  and 
to  fate.  I  can  only  speak  for  myself  and  judge 
as  well  as  I  may  of  the  psychological  state  of 
the  other  passengers.  When  one  is  safely  through 
an  adventure,  its  colour  grows  dim  and  one  is 
inclined  to  take  oneself  to  task  for  ever  seeing  it 
in  such  vivid  lights,  but  the  vivid  lights  were  there 
this  time.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Marconi  had  received  in  New  York,  the 
night  before  he  sailed,  warning  not  to  sail,  as  well 
as  an  anonymous  letter.  We  were,  to  put  it  mild- 
ly, on  the  qui  vive,  ...  It  was  quite  on  the  cards 
that  the  Germans  would  fire  across  our  bow,  force 
us  to  stop,  and  demand  that  Mr.  Marconi  should 
be  taken  off.  .  .  .  But  I  never  heard  the  sHght- 
est  expression  of  fear  or  anxiety  from  any  one 
excepting  a  little  actress,  who  kept  herself  up 
on  gin  and  bromide,  though  from  one  end  of  the 
first-class  cabins  to  the  other,  every  soul  on  board 

was  strained  and  tense All  day  Saturday 

— a  divinely  beautiful  day — I  scarcely  left  the 
deck,  and  remained  there  until  five  o'clock  next 
morning.  Part  of  the  time  I  spent  with  a  Mr. 
Trevelyan — the  son  of  the  famous  historian — 
who  has  been  to  America  to  interest  the  United 
States  in  Serbia.  He  was  a  calm  and  agreeable 
companion.  Together  we  leaned  by  the  hour  on 
the  railing,  watching  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
moonrises  I  have  ever  seen,  and  I  shall  never  for- 


1 66  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

get  the  white  and  stainless  possession  of  that  May- 
night  on  sea  and  sky.  At  any  moment,  in  any- 
second,  we  none  of  us  knew  but  what  we  might  be 
torpedoed. 

Now  I  will  tell  you  why  we  felt  so  insecure — 
given  the  fact  that  we  were  on  a  neutral  ship. 
We  received  the  news  that  another  American  boat, 
a  freighter,  had  just  been  blown  up.  How  were 
we  to  know  whether  or  not  that  was  an  affront 
or  an  accident?  How  indeed!  And  then  we  also 
received  a  bit  of  news.  (When  I  say  "we,"  I 
mean  Marconi  and  the  captain.)  This  was  the 
destruction  of  a  submarine  just  outside  the  bar. 
No  notice  has  been  subsequently  taken  of  this, 
nor  will  be  officially,  and  how  were  we  to  know 
that  a  submarine  was  not  lying  in  wait  to  im- 
pede our  passage  or  to  send  us  to  the  bottom  of 
the  sea? 

Picture  the  atmosphere  of  the  ship,  with  every 
lifeboat  swinging  free.  I  should  think  there  must 
have  been  twelve  or  thirteen,  six  or  seven  on  each 
side,  and  five  or  six  enormous  life  rafts  all  cut 
loose  and  ready,  and  we  who  remained  upon  the 
deck  had  our  life  preservers  and  lifebelts  at  our 
sides. 

If  you  had  gone  into  my  cabin  you  would  have 
seen  in  my  berth  one  of  the  most  beautiful  little 
girls  you  ever  set  your  eyes  upon,  for  I  induced 
her  mother  to  bring  her  up  from  the  bowels  of 
the  boat  and  put  her  to  sleep  in  my  bed.  You 
cannot  think  how  charming  that  little  brunette 
with  her  rosy  cheeks  looked  lying  there  asleep  In 
my  room. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         167 

Well,  of  course,  with  a  highly  Imaginative  tem- 
perament, I  suppose  that  I  looked  at  the  possi- 
bilities in  a  more  varied  manner  than  many,  but 
I  give  you  my  word  that  I  was  absolutely  pre- 
pared, as  I  hope  to  Heaven  I  shall  be  when  the 
real  time  comes.  One  doubtless  never  Is ;  I  could 
not  experience  the  remotest  feeling  of  fear.  In- 
deed, far  less  than  at  other  times  In  my  life.  It 
all  seemed  so  Immense,  so  calm,  so  transcendent; 
all  the  things  by  which  we  are  all  now  surrounded 
are  so  appalling  and  so  beyond  thought  to  con- 
ceive, and  naturally  an  Individual  life  seems  a 
very  small  matter  Indeed. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  peculiar  It  seemed  to  be 
once  again  here  In  Clarges  Street,  where  I  have 
been  so  often,  under  such  peculiar  circumstances 
during  my  nomadic  and  changeful  life.  Nobody 
can  grow  very  sentimental  about  this  In  the  face 
of  what  lies  not  very  far  away. 

There  are  things  that  strike  me  here  as  they 
always  do  In  England:  Its  beauty  and  the  real 
wonder  that  London  Itself  Is.  ...  I  feel  the 
same  In  France  and  otherwheres  In  this  rich  and 
marvellous  old  world.  I  do  not  like  to  say  that 
it  seems  too  beautiful  to  last.  Much  Is  so  perfect 
that  In  the  nature  of  things  should  be  evanescent. 
How  can  beauty  persist  and  remain? 

The  streets  are  full  of  soldiers  now.  Last 
night  In  the  theatre,  where  I  went  alone,  I  heard, 
by  the  way,  the  tune  I  love  so  much  and  which 
you  said  you  would  give  me  to  play  upon  the 
Victor,  "Michigan."  I  saw  several  wounded  of- 
ficers,  men  with   legs   and   arms   bandaged,   lis- 


1 68  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

tening  with  the  rest  of  us  to  the  rag-time  tunes. 
Of  course  now,  as  not  before,  the  intense  seri- 
ousness of  it  all  seems  to  be  more  thoroughly 
appreciated  and  felt,  and  we  are  waiting  for  the 
result  of  the  note  to  Germany,*  and  its  effect 
upon  the  United  States. 

To-morrow  I  am  going  to  Windsor  for  the 
night,  and  on  Sunday  I  shall  go  to  France  and 
take  up  there  whatever  falls  to  my  lot  and  to  my 
hand. 

Yesterday  as  I  went  out  late  in  the  afternoon 
I  met  the  same  old  Punch  and  Judy  man  with 
the  little  mongrel  dog,  and  it  all  seemed  to  me  so 
intensely  charming,  so  intensely  full  of  colour, 
and  after  my  long  months  in  America  I  find  my 
sensitiveness  keener  to  it  than  ever  before. 

They  would  have  made  a  good  shot,  wouldn't 
they,  in  getting  Marconi?  But  he  has  eluded 
them  and  gone  down  into  Italy  to  give  his  brain 
and  his  talents  to  his  people. 

They  tell  us  that  on  the  outskirts  of  London 
last  night  there  were  Zeppelins,  and  Zeppelin 
fires  in  consequence,  but  very  little  is  known  of 
the  details.  My  secretary  in  Paris  treats  the  Lon- 
don Zeppelin  raids  very  lightly,  for  she  tells  me 
that  there  they  have  daily  visits  from  the  Ger- 
man aeroplanes,  and  that  the  bombs  fell  just 
around  the  corner  the  other  day,  and  no  one  was 
even  frightened. 

Ever  yours, 
M. 

♦The  First  American  Note. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         169 
To  Mme.  Hugues  Le  Roux,  New  York, 

Clarges  Street,  June  2nd,  1915. 

My  dear  Bessie, 

Is  not  Miss  WIckersham  perfectly  charming? 
I  never  saw  her  before,  and  I  lunched  there  to- 
day and  found  her  unusually  lovely.  How  gra- 
cious  and  good-looking  she   is! 

The  house  was  delightful,  cool  and  sweet,  and 
there  was  an  atmosphere  of  waiting  about  it,  as 
though  the  master  were  waiting  to  hear  the  news 
of  some  great  victory  that  his  shells  have  helped 
to  bring  about,  or  possibly  even  waiting  for  his 
wife  to  return  from  her  nursing  of  the  wounded. 
Of  course  they  spoke  of  you  with  the  warmest 
regard  and  admiration.  You  seem  to  have  left 
the  same  impression  with  them  that  they  made 
upon  you.  Mrs.  Graham  Murray  was  there  for 
luncheon.  She  has  charge  of  the  bureau  of  In- 
quiry for  the  wounded  and  missing  at  the  Red 
Cross,  and  says  that  her  heart  Is  wrung  from 
morning  till  night.  I  never  heard  anything  more 
appalling  and  in  a  way  more  beautiful  than  her 
story  of  the  sinking  of  the  Lusitania.  One  of 
her  friends,  a  woman,  was  among  the  saved.  This 
lady  and  three  others  were  clinging  to  an  empty 
box  in  the  sea.  They  all  had  on  their  life-pre- 
servers, and  one  or  two  of  them  could  swim  a 
little.  Among  them  was  Miss  Dorothy  Bralth- 
walte,  of  Canada,  coming  to  Lady  Drummond 
here  in  London.  Both  of  Miss  Braithwalte's 
sisters  had  been  widowed  on  the  same  day,  their 
husbands  being  killed  In  action,  and  when  Miss 


170  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Braithwalte  heard  of  this  she  sailed  immediately 
to  come  to  her  young  widowed  sisters. 

She  was  a  beautiful  girl,  not  more  than  twenty, 
and  very  frail.  When  the  seas  broke  over  the 
box,  all  four  of  them  were  obliged  to  let  go  and 
try  blindly  to  find  it  again  when  they  could.  At 
length  Miss  Braithwalte  grew  paler  and  paler 
and  finally  the  girl  said,  "I  am  afraid  I  cannot 
hold  on  much  longer.  Please  don't  any  one  help 
me,  else  we  will  all  be  lost."  Her  friend  said  that 
she  smiled  quite  calmly,  and  they  all  four  said  a 
little  prayer  together,  and  the  girl  said,  "Tell 
Lady  Drummond  that  I  died  bravely  and  did  not 
suffer,  and  cable  the  same  to  my  mother.'*  Then 
she  let  go.  Her  friend  said  that  a  few  moments 
afterwards  she  saw  the  lovely  little  body  float 
past  her,  and  that  Miss  Braithwalte  lay  with 
both  her  hands  peacefully  clasped  upon  her  breast 
like  a  lily  on  the  water. 

I  wish  this  could  be  told  just  as  I  heard  it.  It 
would  not  take  many  more  incidents  like  this  to 
make  us  go  into  the  war. 

I  saw  Mr.  Page.  He  was  very  agreeable,  and 
he  spoke  of  you.  I  told  him  you  were  doing 
some  splendid  work  at  home,  and  he  said,  "Of 
course  she  would,  we  expect  it  of  her."  I  am  now 
going  down  to  Windsor  to  stay  the  night  with 
Bridget,  coming  up  to-morrow  to  go  to  see  the 
Pages  in  the  afternoon  and  dine  at  Sir  Robert's. 
On  Friday  I  shall  go  down  to  see  Lady  North- 
cliffe,  at  Guildford,  where  she  is  nursing  wounded 
soldiers,  and  will  write  you  of  that  experience. 

Last  night  I  went  with  Mr.  Lane  to  the  first 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         171 

night  of  "Armageddon/'  a  new  play  by  Stephen 
Phillips.  It  opened  in  Hell,  then  flashed  on  to 
Rheims,  where  the  invading  host  were  asphyxi- 
ated by  French  shells,  then  into  a  room  in  a  cha- 
teau which  was  being  devastated  by  the  Germans. 
There  were  en  suite  an  English  garden,  a  scene 
In  Berlin,  and  a  scene  in  Cologne,  and  the  play 
ended  up  in  Hell. 

I  am  going  to  arrange  to  stay  a  day  with  Lady 
Hadfield  en  route  for  Paris  at  her  Field  Hospital 
in  Boulogne. 

Mother  writes  that  Madame  de  S.  is  desolate 
and,  as  you  foresaw,  will  not  speak  of  her  son. 
Madame  de  Bresson  is  with  her,  I  believe.  Only 
two  more  women  for  whom  the  future  is  abso- 
lutely black  and  desperate.  I  dare  not  presage 
what  is  before  us  Americans,  whether  or  not  we 
shall  be  plunged  into  this  dreadful  war  and  there- 
after be  decidedly  more  of  a  nation  than  ever, 
or  whether  we  are  to  remain  at  peace.  At  all 
events  I  am  taking  advantage  of  one  of  the  sec- 
retaries from  the  Embassy  to  send  my  letters 
now,  and  I  hope  you  will  take  every  possible 
means  of  communicating  with  me.  Everybody 
here  to  whom  I  have  spoken  seems  eager  to  have 
America  join  the  war,  and  some  of  them  think  it 
will  materially  shorten  this  terrible  struggle.  If 
this  is  true,  I  hope  we  will  come  in.  And  there 
will  be  undoubtedly  a  great  spiritual  benefit  to 
us  from  it,  even  if  we  have  to  drain  the  bitter 
cup  that  these   people   are   draining  here.  .  .  . 


172  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

To  Mrs,   Victor  Morawetz,  New  York, 

London,  June  3rd,  1915. 

Dear  Violet, 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  miss  you  all.  It  would 
not  be  possible  to  say  how  I  regret  that  we  do 
not  all  live  in  the  same  country.  Indeed,  when 
I  think  about  it,  I  do  not  want  to  live  anywhere, 
for  it  is  all  too  heart-rending  and  too  nerve-rack- 
ing— these  separations  and  these  adjustments  of 
life  without  a  compass.  It  Is  very  interesting, 
however,  and  I  suppose  that  that  is  something 
when  you  think  of  the  women  on  far-off  farms 
who  from  sunrise  to  sunset  see  nothing  but  cows 
and  the  Incomings  and  outgoings  of  the  hired 
men — not  to  speak  of  their  husbands!  .  .  . 

Certainly  everybody  Is  not  meant  for  marriage. 

Here  Is  Countess  ,  for  instance,  happy  for 

the  first  time  in  her  life^,  nursing  wounded  in  a 
military  hospital,  whilst  in  order  to  keep  her  hus- 
band peaceful  and  satisfied,  she  has  imported  a 
beautiful  cousin  from  the  United  States !   .  .  . 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  love  this  beautiful 
city.  Every  time  I  come  back  to  It  it  has  new 
charm.  Here  In  this  very  street  in  1891,  I  sat 
in  one  of  these  impersonal  rooms  with  Adele,  idly 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book  of  Rossettl's 
poems.  I  had  never  read  Rossettl — never.  He 
was  new  to  me.  She  Introduced  me  to  him.  I 
remember  so  distinctly  even  the  day  and  how  beau- 
tiful Adele  was,  and  how  ardently  interested.  She 
said  to  me,  "Why  don't  you  write  something 
here?''    And  on  the  fly-leaf  of  that  book  I  wrote 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         17J 

a  piece  of  verse  which  I  sent  to  Scrihner^s  Maga- 
zine. It  was,  in  short,  the  first  thing  of  mine 
ever  published.  And  you  remember  how  I  have 
told  you  that  it  was  received  with  interest. 

London  charmed  me  then,  and  down  this  self- 
same street  at  night-time  would  come  that  man 
with  his  remarkable  voice  singing: 

"  I'll  sing  thee  songs  of  Araby." 

I  was  young  then  and  full  of  ambition  and  In- 
terest, and  even  then,  my  dear,  how  singularly 
alone  I  was.  With  no  one  to  direct  me  or  guide 
me,  or  command  me,  and  only  the  influence  of 
chance  acquaintances  upon  me. 

My  next  keen  recollection  is  when  I  came  here 
at  one  melancholy  Christmas  time,  after  my 
brother's  death,  and  learned  by  cable  from  Amer- 
ica that  every  cent  of  money  I  had  then  in  the 
world  had  gone.  And  I  knew  then  from  hence- 
forth that  I  had  to  face  life  at  first  hand.  I 
bore  that  here  alone,  in  a  London  fog,  where  later 
the  sun  rose  up  like  a  great  big  orange  lantern 
over  St.  James's  Park. 

Then  again  I  remembered  London  when  in  a 
little  room  under  the  eaves  I  stayed  here  for  a 
few  days  with  the  MS.  of  my  first  novel  in  my 
trunk.  I  remember  the  excitement  of  those  times, 
going  from  one  publisher  to  another,  and  that 
feeling  of  oneness  with  the  mass,  and  I  realised 
what  Dickens  meant  when  in  *'Bleak  House"  the 
poor  clerk  said  to  Joe,  the  street  sweeper,  "I  am 
as  poor  as  you  arc,  Joe,  and  I  can't  give  you  any- 


174  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

thing,  my  lad,"  for  I  had  nothing  then,  and  you 
can't  have  less  than  that! 

It  was  Christmas  time.  Ladysmith  was  be- 
sieged, and  all  London  was  plunged  in  the  pro- 
foundest  gloom.  I  remember  the  crowds  around 
the  War  Office.  It  was  war  time  then,  and  such 
a  fly  speck  on  the  page  of  history  compared  to 
now. 

I  never  shall  forget  my  excitement  in  selling 
that  first  book,  and  how  in  tune  I  felt  with  the 
whole  world  of  English  writers;  unknown  and 
unimportant  as  I  was,  I  felt  so  close  to  all  those 
who  had  written  English  In  this  home  of  English 
letters,  and  London  spoke  to  me  then  in  every 
street,  in  every  park,  in  all  Its  great,  mysteri- 
ous charm. 

I  won't  return  to  my  coming  here  last  year  In 
August,  before  England  went  to  war,  because 
you  know  too  well  all  It  meant  to  me  then,  and 
here  I  am  once  more. 

I  am  sure  It  will  amuse  you  to  know  that  my 
maid.  In  the  kindness  of  her  heart,  unpacked  my 
Victor  and  Installed  It  here,  so  that  when  I  am 
very  lonely  I  can  play  the  tunes  I  like  to  hear; 
but  some  of  them  I  cannot  play,  for  they  make 
me  sad.  I  do  hope  with  all  my  heart,  dearest 
girl,  that  you  will  like  the  things  I  have  chosen. 
Of  course  I  have  seen  some  beautiful  antiquities, 
but  I  hardly  dared  send  them  from  here;  besides, 
I  have  no  money  to  do  so. 

When  you  get  this  letter  you  will  probably 
be  still  awaiting  the  German  response  to  the  Amer- 
ican Note,  driving  around  the  beautiful  country 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  175 

and  leading  your  serene  and  lovely  life.  Do  not 
forget  me,  that  is,  remember  something  of  me 
that  you  can  remember  with  pleasure,  and  try  not 
to  dwell  upon  my  unsatisfactoriness  and  all  my 
shortcomings.     It  makes  too  long  a  story. 

Ever  yours, 

M. 

To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz,  New  York, 

Clarges  Street,  June  4th,  1915. 

My  dear, 

When  I  am  at  home  with  you  all,  seeing  the 
kind  of  lives  you  lead,  and  the  immunity  that 
you  all  have  from  everything  that  is  really  try- 
ing and  difficult  and,  I  might  almost  say,  serious, 
I  realise  then  as  I  do  now  a  certain  futility  in  en- 
tering into  discussions  and  in  trying  to  solve 
moral,  psychological  and  sentimental  problems. 
Nevertheless,  these  problems  are  all  there  in  hu- 
man hearts.  They  are  things  that  cause  the  deep- 
est anguish,  they  are  also  the  things  that  when 
properly  met,  cause  souls  to  rise  to  their  great- 
est heights.  If  it  Is  possible  for  you  to  do  so,  I 
wish  you  would  try  to  put  yourself  for  a  mo- 
ment in  my  place.  Those  eight  days  of  loneliness 
on  board  ship  facing  what  the  course  of  other 
events  must  prove  to  be  a  possible  danger  at  least, 
returning  here  to  a  country  where  the  preceding 
months  have  added  daily  to  its  anguish,  to  its 
grave  questions,  and  looking  forward  to  grap- 
pling with  new  and  old  problems  has  made  me 
more  grave  and  more  serious  in  my  point  of  view 
than  I  have  ever  been  before. 


176  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

One  thing  is  certain:  I  am  not  willing  to  go 
on  for  the  rest  of  my  existence  in  the  constant 
society  of  myself,  unless  I  can  make  that  society 
at  least  agreeable  and  at  least  have  it  under  my 
control.  .  .  . 

I  went  the  other  night  to  stay  in  Windsor  For- 
est with  Bridget.  There  she  has  been  ever  since 
the  beginning  of  the  war,  just  with  her  little  chil- 
dren and  her  painting  and  her  Belgian  refugees. 
She  was  sweet  and  lovely,  and  I  enjoyed  supper 
in  her  little  house,  with  the  children  at  another 
tiny  table,  and  Lady  K.  and  two  beautiful  Eng- 
lish girls  who  adore  their  mother,  so  that  it  was 
the  prettiest  thing  I  ever  saw.  It  gave  you  a 
perfect  glow  of  happiness  to  see  such  love  be- 
tween mother  and  daughters.  Bridget  has  great 
talent.  We  took  a  motor  after  dinner  and  took 
Lady  K.  home  and  Bridget  drove.  And  there 
we  got  stuck  in  a  country  village  in  the  dead  of 
night  with  a  whole  regiment  of  Welsh  soldiers 
round  us.  Even  the  police  had  all  they  could 
do  to  keep  the  men  from  hanging  on  to  our  car 
and  paying  us  compliments !  We  finally  made  a 
raid  upon  a  garage  and  got  patched  up  and  went 
plunking  along  through  deserted  roads  home.  . . . 


To  Miss  B,  S.  Andrews,  New  York, 

Clarges  Street,  June  5th,  191 5. 

Dearest  Belle, 

You  will  think  it  strange  that  I  have  lingered 
on  here  for  a  week,   and  yet,  business  aside,  I 


Photograph  by  Arnold  Genthe,  Neiu  York 

MRS.  BENJAMIN  GUINNESS 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         177 

am  reluctant  to  go  over  and  take  up  my  life. 
It  is  not  a  question  of  indecision  this  time,  it 
is  lingering  on  a  threshold,  always  a  sympathetic 
one,  and  which  now  I  feel  I  leave  for  an  indefi- 
nite period  to  go  into  what  is  both  known  and 
unknown.  Well,  I  must  go,  and  I  leave  to-mor- 
row on  what  is  now  a  twelve-hours'  trans-Channel 
journey,  for  instead  of  seven  hours  to  Paris  it  is 
twelve,  and  even  that  is  doing  pretty  well.  There 
is  an  enormous  lot  of  red  tape  about  passports, 
but  nothing  like  so  much  as  there  was,  nor  with 
the  luggage  either,  for  that  matter,  and  the  boats 
run  regularly  twice  a  day. 

Each  day  I  grow  gladder  and  gladder  so  far 
of  this  lonely  experience  and  of  all  it  has  meant 
to  me,  psychologically,  mentally,  and  morally. 
I  can  see  how  in  every  way  I  needed  it,  and  that 
is  a  great  deal.  I  remember  a  very  beautiful 
verse  in  the  Bible  which  says:  "In  patience  pos- 
sess ye  your  souls:"  and  I  have  often  thought 
that  the  possession  of  one's  soul  was  a  very  won- 
derful thing  and  a  very  necessary  one.  Of  course, 
it  was  probably  in  order  to  do  this  that  in  the 
days  of  old  saints  used  to  go  off  for  periods  into 
the  wilderness  alone.  It  is  not  a  very  agreeable 
thing,  this  coming  face  to  face  with  one's  own 
personality,  as  we  all  have  to  do  from  time  to 
time.  I  suppose  it  is  salutary,  and  therefore 
good,  and  for  many  of  us  absolutely  indispensable. 

Last  night  I  went  to  the  English  version  of 
"Watch  your  Step."  The  thing  that  interested 
me,  for  the  show  was  nothing  at  all,  was  the  of- 
ficers and  soldiers  in  their  uniforms,  crowds  of 


178  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

them.  It  was  very  touching  to  me  to  see  these 
young  men  absorbed  and  amused  by  this  light 
vaudeville  affair.  I  do  not  know  how  many  of 
them  had  been  to  the  front  or  were  going  or  what 
they  knew  of  it,  but  you  would  have  thought 
that  England  was  only  playing  at  war  to  have 
seen  their  careless  expressions  and  their  gaiety. 
I  sat  scarcely  able  to  laugh  at  the  comedy  on  the 
stage.  I  could  hardly  look  at  their  khaki  and  at 
their  accoutrements  without  seeing  them  as  they 
were  carried  in  on  a  hospital  stretcher,  or  taken 
off  in  the  ambulance.  Of  course  having  been  a 
nurse  does  not  make  me  so  abnormal  that  I  can- 
not also  think  of  the  glorious  part  of  it,  but  it 
is  very  hard  in  these  days  of  active  fighting  to 
reconcile  a  lot  of  soldiers  at  a  vaudeyille  show, 
laughing  and  splitting  their  sides,  with  what  we 
know  of  war  across  the  Channel. 

The  house  was  so  crowded  that  I  had  the  last 
seat.  All  the  music  halls  are  going  well,  I  think. 
Last  night  we  had  another  Zeppelin  raid,  and 
my  hairdresser  says  she  was  up  all  night  and 
out  in  the  streets  in  her  night-dress,  and  part 
of  the  street  she  lives  in  was  destroyed  by  fire. 
Now  this  is  not  told  in  the  papers.  London  does 
not  know  and  the  German  spies  here  are  being 
kept  in  ignorance.  Several  airships  have  been 
over  the  town,  or  rather  the  distant  quarters  of 
the  town,  within  the  last  few  days. 

I  know  you  will  be  interested  to  hear  that  in 
the  last  few  days  I  have  probably  placed  my  war 
letters  with  John  Lane.  It  seems  *'Big  Tremaine" 
sold  fairly  well  here — considering  the  times,  very 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         179 

well — so  that  is  better  news  than  I  had  before 
about  it. 

After  the  play  last  night  I  walked  home  at 
twelve  o^clock  from  Leicester  Square  to  my  lodg- 
ings quite  alone  through  these  dimly-lit  streets, 
and  when  I  came  in  I  sat  here  smoking  and  think- 
ing until  long  after  one,  and  in  the  interval  I  wrote 
the  enclosed.    What  do  you  think  of  it? 

The  shops  are  full  of  war  paraphernalia.  How 
they  make  your  heart  twist,  to  think  wFere  those 
military  beds  will  lie  and  how  all  those  objects 
gotten  up  with  so  much  science,  taste,  and  care 
will  be  strewn  on  foreign  fields,  and  if  they  do 
come  home  again  what  marks  they  will  bear! 

There  is  not  one  thing  about  the  whole  ensem- 
ble that  is  not  picturesque,  romantic,  and  with 
elements  of  beauty  in  it.  Uniforms,  accoutre- 
ments, all  that  goes  with  the  big  military  game 
has  so  much  colour.  And  the  Scotch  soldiers  in 
their  plaids,  you  cannot  think  how  stunning  they 
are,  and  too  picturesque  to  be  true.  You  cannot 
believe  your  eyes  when  you  see  these  very  things 
before  your  face  suggestive  of  song  and  story 
and  fiction,  and  romance,  and  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible to  believe  that  any  of  it  has  anything  to  do 
with  the  grim,  stern  horror  of  blood  and  smoke 
and  death. 

Ever  yours, 
M. 


i8o  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

To  Miss  B.  S,  Andrews,  New  York. 

Paris,  June  7th,  191 5. 

...  I  must  tell  you  about  an  agreeable  inter- 
view with  John  Lane,  the  celebrated  publisher. 
I  went  to  see  him  in  his  little  old-time  office  in 
Vigo  Street.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  such  things 
exist  unchanged,  in  these  modern  days,  in  the 
heart  of  a  big  city.  There,  in  the  room  where 
he  received  me,  the  Saturday  Review  was  born 
and  lived  for  very  many  years.  There,  in  the 
same  room,  Macaulay  wrote  part  of  the  History 
of  England.  I  struck  a  knocker  instead  of  push- 
ing an  electric  bell  as  I  entered.  ...  I  had  given 
Mr.  Lane  my  War  Letters  to  read,  and  I  believe 
one  of  his  readers  was  favourable:  he  hadn't 
heard  from  the  other  one.  I  imagine,  though 
Mr.  Lane  did  not  tell  me  so,  that  the  first  criti- 
cism was  fair. 

You  have  often  accused  me  of  being  vain,  and 
it  will  amuse  you  vastly  to  imagine  the  blow  when, 
after  gazing  at  me  for  a  few  minutes,  John  Lane, 
one  of  the  most  important  publishers  in  the  world, 
asked  me  in  his  gentle  voice:  "Did  you  ever 
write  anything  before?"  Even  in  that  moment  of 
fallen  pride,  I  could  not  help  thinking  what  a 
gleam  of  humour  would  come  to  your  eyes  if  you 
could  have  seen  me  taken  down  like  that.  I  did 
not  tell  him  that  I  had  written  twenty  books  and 
done  not  badly  at  the  job  in  a  financial  way  for 
fourteen  years!  It  turned  out  that  he  thought 
Bessie  Le  Roux  was  "Marie  Van  Vorst"  and  that 
it  was  a  nom  de  guerre,  and  that  she  had  married 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         i8i 

a  French  writer,  and  that  /  was  just  an  unknown 
sister  who  had  written  a  few  letters  home  during 
the  war !  .  .  .  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  meeting  Mr. 
Lane,  who  was  charming. 

Best  love, 

Marie. 


To  Mrs,  F.  B.  Van  Forst,  Hackensack,  N.  /. 

Dear  Mary, 

I  came  away  from  London  at  half-past  eight 
on  Sunday  morning  to  attempt  my  fifth  Channel 
crossing  since  the  war  began,  and  I  came  alone, 
leaving  my  maid  to  go  down  to  Gloucester  to 
see  her  people.  The  boat  was  crowded  with  sol- 
diers and  officers. 

England  seemed  far  more  serious  and  awake 
than  when  I  left,  and  to  appreciate  the  situation 
to  the  fullest,  as  far  as  I  could  see.  Of  course 
they  asked  themselves  and  me  every  minute  what 
America  was  going  to  do,  and  one  was  pretty 
safe  in  feeling  that  the  first  question  a  person 
would  put  to  you  when  they  met  you  was  just 
that:  'What  is  America  going  to  do?"  I'll  be 
switched  if  I  could  tell  them  or  make  any  kind  of 
a  satisfactory  answer.  It  is  all  too  dulling  and 
strange,  and  ever  since  I  have  touched  the  shores 
here,  I  seem  to  feel  with  the  utmost  intensity  the 
presence  of  those  struggHng,  contending  masses 
all  along  those  far-flung  lines,  east  and  west.  The 
whole  world  seems  a  hecatomb,  a  honey<omh 
of  destruction. 


1 82  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

I  don't  know  what  news  you  have  of  the  Zep- 
pelin raids  on  London,  but  they  were  serious  to 
the  extent  of  destroying  several  houses  and  some 
lives.  Even  the  latest  vanity  bag  has  a  changed 
aspect  now,  and  in  it  are  sold  little  "tampons"  of 
wadding,  chemically  prepared  to  clap  over  the 
mouth  as  a  preventive  against  the  fumes.  You 
can  get  all  kinds  of  war  insurances  and  risk  in- 
surances. I  don't  doubt  that  you  could  buy  an 
insurance  against  marriage  or  a  temptation  to  it, 
or  anything  you  liked  I  They  say  that  when  the 
war  is  over  polygamy  will  be  winked  at ;  so  there 
will  be  a  chance  for  every  one.  I  dare  say  that 
a  lot  of  forlorn  spinsters  will  feel  that  even  war 
has  its  compensations! 

Ever  yours, 

M. 


To  Miss  B.  S,  Andrews,  New  York. 

Dearest  Belle, 

I  left  London  reluctantly.  My  week  there,  in 
those  desolate  lodgings,  interested  me,  although  I 
was  so  lonely  that  it  weighed  upon  me  like  a  cloud. 
Here,  on  arriving,  the  contrast  was  great  between 
the  shore  I  left  and  the  shore  I  found.  The 
motor  ambulances  at  Boulogne  were  thick — rows 
and  rows  of  them  were  lined  up  along  the  rail- 
road quays,  and  many  military  motors,  just  driven 
down  from  the  front,  were  covered  with  the  dust 
of  the  road.  I  had  thought  of  going  to  Lady 
Hadfield's  base  hospital  at  Boulogne,  but  decided 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         183 

to  come  straight  through  to  Paris,  which  I  did. 
I  arrived  at  7  o^clock,  to  be  met  by  no  one,  as  the 
train  was  an  hour  and  a  half  too  early,  and  I  got 
all  my  luggage  through  alone,  took  a  Gare  du 
Nord  omnibus,  and  piled  on  my  cases  with  the 
wool  and  grape-fruit  and  the  Victrola  I  bought 
myself  in  New  York.  Even  if  everybody  goes  to 
war,  and  stocks  go  down,  and  nobody  buys  my 
stories,  I  can  sit  in  an  attic  room  and  listen  to 
the  old  tunes! 

I  am  sitting  here  in  my  study  this  afternoon, 
and  in  front  of  me  is  the  big  war  map,  where 
unfortunately  the  line  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
pushed  back  as  far  as  we  want  it;  and  I  really 
think  that  it  is  the  first  peaceful  moment  I  have 
had  since  I  arrived.  ...  I  am  going  to  change 
this  room,  and  so  I  look  around  upon  it  now  with 
affection.  The  memories  of  this  little  study  have 
made  it  peculiarly  dear  to  me  and  peculiarly  sa- 
cred, and  I  hate  to  give  it  up.  Nevertheless,  per- 
haps something  more  meaningful  will  make  the 
new  study  dearer  yet.  I  hope  so.  Here  I  wrote 
"Fairfax  and  His  Pride,'*  which  I  still  think  my 
best  novel,  without  any  doubt.  Here  I  wrote  the 
most  effective  part  of  "The  Successful  Wife," 
which  I  think  will  some  day  be  reprinted  and 
sold.  Here  I  wrote  my  "River"  articles — every 
one  of  them,  with  one  exception.  (I  only  men- 
tion the  more  important  things.)  Out  of  this 
window,  how  often  you  and  I  have  watched  the 
illuminations  for  the  Fourteenth  of  July,  in  the 
heat  of  summer;  and  how  often  heard  the  ring- 
ing of  the  old  clock,  marking  happy  hours ;  and 


1 84  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

how  often  seen  the  moon  rise  over  the  opposite 
roofs  I  And  now  the  Place  below  is  dark  at  night 
and  the  lamps,  like  muted  violins,  are  softened 
by  their  heavy  iron  shades. 

I  think  with  especial  pleasure  of  the  writing 
of  "Big  Tremaine"  here,  and  the  beginning  of 
"Mary  Moreland" — an  entire  short  story,  writ- 
ten one  January,  when,  as  usual,  I  was  alone. 
That  was  a  very  interesting  month — one  of  the 
most  delightful  I  ever  spent  in  my  life — alone  as 
I  was;  and  I  shall  always  look  back  upon  it  with 
peculiar  pleasure.  I  read  Dante,  with  Miss  Casa- 
bianca,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life;  and  I  wrote 
a  great  deal  of  "Tremaine."  There  was  a  charm 
in  those  undisturbed  days  and  a  mental  utility; 
and  later  in  the  spring,  under  the  strongest  in- 
spiration for  work  I  have  ever  had  in  my  life 
— and  by  far  the  most  delightful — I  wrote  the 
close  of  "Big  Tremaine,"  the  most  successful  book 
I  ever  wrote. 

Perhaps  it  will  not  bore  you  to  read  these  rem- 
iniscences. I  have  always  wanted  to  linger  over 
them  and  bring  them  agreeably  forth;  and  I  am 
sure  your  eye  will  fall  kindly  upon  them  and  that 
you  will  read  them  with  sympathy.   .  .  . 

I  do  not  want  to  change  my  study,  nor  even 
write  this  letter,  without  marking  its  tribute  to 
you.  I  think  you  will  understand  the  dedication 
of  "Mary  Moreland";  and  also  that  you  realise 
that  I  can  never  forget  your  entrance  and  advent 
here,  as  you  used  to  come,  day  after  day,  evening 
after  evening,  expected  and  unexpected,  and  open 
the  study  door  and  disturb  my  work;  and  cross 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         185 

the  Place,  expected  and  unexpected,  turning  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  de  Bourgogne  and  waving  up 
to  me  a  white-gloved  hand.  How  many  times  I 
have  stood  here  and  watched  you  come  and 
watched  you  go,  in  the  yellow  motor  that  now 
is  driving  to  and  fro  in  Paris  with  a  Red  Cross 
flag  flying  from  it,  at  the  behest  of  the  French 
Government!  The  motor  always  came  too  soon 
then,  whenever  it  came;  and  I  can  see  now  how 
you  used  to  put  up  the  curtain  of  the  back  win- 
dow and  wave  to  me  again.  It  would  not  be  fair 
not  to  say  what  an  impulse  your  friendship  and 
companionship  gave  during  all  those  months  to 
all  I  did  and  was.  I  do  not  dwell  upon  my  debt 
to  you,  for  I  think  you  must  know.  .  .  .  Now,  in 
returning  to  this  almost  deserted  city,  where  the 
boulevards  are  like  country  streets,  where  cabs 
and  taxis  are  sparse  in  comparison  with  the 
crowded  old  days;  where,  in  spite  of  courage  and 
cheer,  the  place  seems  sad  and  changed — here 
there  is  no  one  to  come  and  either  inspire  or 
disturb.  So  why  not,  since  any  change  is  good, 
they  say — why  not  change  the  study? 

Ever  yours,  my  dear, 

M. 

To  Mrs,  Victor  Morawetz. 

Dear  Violet, 

The  night  I  came  home,  I  sent  my  luggage 
to  the  house  by  the  bus  and  took  a  taxi  and 
came  along  later.  Everything  was  in  apple-pie 
order;  I  can't  tell  you  how  sweet  it  all  looked. 


186  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Among  my  ornaments,  here  and  there,  were  scat- 
tered Belle  and  Mollle's  things  from  the  Hotel  du 
Rhin,  and  it  gave  me  pleasure  to  see  them  there. 
I  want  to  mention  especially  the  beauty  and  grace 
of  the  flowers  everywhere — sweet  peas  and  a 
frail,  delicate  little  white  flower,  a  sort  of  meadow- 
sweet, very  ethereal  and  lovely,  and  all  arranged 
with  great  taste  and  charm.  They  were  wonder- 
fully appealing  to  me,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
after  that  long  strain  of  the  sea  and  the  return 
— these  frail,  beautiful  things,  which  although 
speechless,  were  living.  I  shall  remember  them 
always. 

Word  met  me  here  that  I  was  not  to  go  to 
my  mother,  as  she  was  too  tired  to  see  me  at  that 
time  of  night;  and  as  you  can  imagine,  I  could 
not  go  to  bed,  or  even  remain  at  rest.  So  I  took 
a  taxi  and  drove  immediately  to  Madame  de  S. 
Many  times,  when  I  have  gone  there,  I  have 
driven  up  just  behind  the  taxi  of  Henry  Dadvi- 
sard  and  seen  him  spring  out  and  go  in,  gaily, 
quickly,  with  the  energy  and  vitality  which  char- 
acterised him,  in  his  bright  uniform  of  the  Cuiras- 
siers, with  his  high  boots  and  jingling  spurs.  How 
often  have  I  seen  him  there!  He  seemed  an  in- 
tegral part  of  the  place.  Now  I  realised  that 
he  would  never  come  there  any  more — never — 
and  that  all  he  meant  of  strength  and  manly 
courage  and  life  was  gone  for  ever.  Wasted? 
Spilled?  Lost?  Dispersed?  Who  can  say? 
Qui  vive?  Oh,  how  devoutly  I  pray  that  we  may 
be  able  to  answer:  "La  France — quand  meme*M 
.  .  .  For  some  reason  or  other,  I  was  not  loth 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         187 

to  go  in,  because  I  know  my  friend  so  well,  her 
courage  and  her  great  soul  and  her  great  heart; 
but  it  was  with  very  deep  feeling  that  I  mounted 
those  stairs,  my  dear — past  the  clock  marking 
the  eternal  hours,  the  clock  that  on  that  first  of 
August  night  had  marked  his  coming  and  whose 
sightless  face  had  seen  him  go  out  of  the  door 
for  ever.  Over  and  over  again,  I  have  mounted 
those  stairs,  Mme.  de  S.  between  Henry  and 
myself,  going  up  slowly,  leaning  on  him — all  three 
of  us  gaily  talking,  as  we  went  to  the  salon  after 
dinner.  From  henceforth  she  goes  up  them  and 
on  into  life  more  completely  alone  than  ever. 
.  .  .  I  found  her  sitting,  as  I  have  found  her 
sitting  countless  times,  in  the  dimly  lighted  room, 
her  knitting  in  her  hands,  and  close  to  her  knee 
the  Vicomtesse  de  Bresson,  pale  as  death,  in  her 
deep  widow's  weeds,  her  eyes  full  of  unshed  tears, 
knitting  too  for  the  soldiers.  .  .  .  Well,  I  shall 
never  forgej  it.  Both  women  were  perfectly  quiet 
and  perfectly  controlled,  and  we  sat  talking  to- 
gether about  general  things  for  an  hour  and  no 
personalities  were  mentioned;  but  MmCi.  de  Bres- 
son's face  was  a  tragedy. 

The  Vicomte  de  Bresson,  though  a  brilliant 
soldier,  hated  war.  He  was  an  eminently  peace- 
ful man,  born  and  bred  to  the  soldier's  profession, 
with  a  high  commission  which  he  had  filled  for 
years.  He  had  resigned  from  the  Army  because 
he  hated  army  life  and  war;  but  the  moment  that 
war  was  declared  he  volunteered  and  led  a  whole 
brigade.  Advantage  was  taken,  I  believe,  of  his 
very  unusual  courage,  because  it  seems  that  the 


1 88  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

orders  given  him  were  to  perform  a  feat  which  he 
himself  knew  was  impossible,  and  he  said  so.  He 
said  to  his  superior  officer:  "On  ne  peut  pas  le 
faire.  J'irai,  mais  la  tache  est  impossible."  So 
he  went,  and  he  fell  in  the  enemy's  lines,  and 
there  lay  two  days,  his  soldiers  being  able  to  see 
the  body  from  a  little  eminence.  Can  you  vaguely 
think  what  that  means  to  a  woman,  to  know  that 
her  husband  lay  upon  a  battlefield,  in  the  enemy's 
lines,  and  that  his  body,  under  the  circumstances, 
could  be  a  prey  to  whatever  mutilations  those  hor- 
rible creatures  chose  to  practice — for  they  do! 
That's  all  that  Anna  knows — that's  all.  .  .  . 

With  Henry  Dadvisard  the  case  is  quite  dif- 
ferent. Of  his  own  accord,  he  left  the  cavalry 
and  joined  the  infantry  and  went  into  the  most 
dangerous  part  of  the  fight.  Five  captains  had 
been  killed  successively,  and  he  was  the  sixth. 
Mme.  de  S.  says — and  I  assure  you  that  the  way 
she  told  it  to  me  that  night  was  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  things  I  ever  heard  in  my  life — she  says 
that  for  days  before  his  letters  to  her  had  been 
extraordinarily  spiritual,  and  that  she  knew  that 
little  by  little  he  was  detaching  himself  from  life. 
He  seemed  to  have  left  it  all,  and  its  interests 
completely  behind.  It  is  a  great  grief  to  her  to 
feel  that  he  was  surrounded,  those  last  days,  not 
by  his  own  regiment,  in  which  he  was  adored,  but 
by  comparative  strangers.  She  believes  that  the 
day  he  went  out,  he  knew  he  was  going  out  to 
die.  The  ground  was  full  of  holes  torn  up  by 
the  shells,  and  the  sortie  which  he  had  been  or- 
dered to  make  was  full  of  the  most  dreadful  dan- 


VICOMTE  EDGAR  DE  BRESSON 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         189 

ger.  They  say  he  led  his  charge  brilliantly; 
springing  like  a  flame  from  place  to  place,  where 
he  could  find  a  foothold.  Finally,  he  led  his  men 
on  his  hands  and  knees,  as  it  was  unsafe  to  stand 
erect;  and  he  was  kneeling  on  one  knee,  with  his 
sword  raised,  when  he  was  shot  through  the  heart. 
He  was  picked  up  by  his  men  and  carried  away, 
and  she  has  the  joy  of  knowing  that  he  was  burled 
in  a  private  vault  in  some  little  cemetery.  That 
joy  is  hers.  .  .  .  She  told  me  that  she  was  sitting 
in  her  bedroom  quietly  at  her  desk — she  hadn't 
heard  from  him  for  several  days — and  the  mail 
was  brought  to  her.  She  had  given  him  some 
envelopes  in  her  own  handwriting,  addressed  to 
herself  and  stamped,  in  which  a  slip  was  to  be 
put  if  he  were  wounded — she  never  dared  think  of 
anything  else — and  one  of  these  came  to  her. 
Well,  it  was  a  shock,  but  she  tore  it  open,  with- 
out dreaming  what  its  news  might  be,  and  there 
she  read  the  calm  announcement  from  a  priest 
that  he  was  dead.  She  told  me  that  it  was  days 
before  she  shed  a  tear,  and  she  went  on  calmly 
about  her  affairs,  telling  his  family,  as  she  was 
the  only  one  who  knew  anything  about  it.  But 
she  never  speaks  of  him,  and  the  fact  that  she 
could  tell  me  all  this  was  a  very  great  tribute 
to  our  love  and  friendship.  ...  I  can't  imagine 
him  dead.  He  was  one  of  the  most  vital  and  bril- 
liant men  I  ever  knew,  and  he  was  only  one  of 
many  of  the  flower  of  France  that  have  been  cut 
down  in  this  hellish  harvest. 

Yesterday  I  went  Into  Rollet's  to  buy  a  few 
caramels  to  take  to  Mother,  and  that  handsome 


190  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

young  blonde  girl  that  used  to  wait  on  us  served 
me.  I  noticed  that  she  was  in  black  and  I  hardly 
dared  to  ask  her,  but  she  said  her  husband — and 
stopped,  holding  the  box  of  caramels  in  her  hand. 
She  was  perfectly  beautiful  as  she  stood  there 
— one  of  the  prettiest  women,  I  think,  I  have  ever 
seen — with  that  pallor  that  comes  to  those  that 
have  watched  with  the  greatest  grief,  and  those 
quiet,  courageous,  pathetic  eyes  of  women  who 
control  their  tears  because  they  are  the  wives  of 
soldiers.  "Only  twenty-seven,  madame,"  she  said, 
"and  such  a  lovely  boy."  And  then  she  said  with 
the  deepest  feeling :  "It  simply  means  that  I  shall 
mourn  all  my  life."  She  has  a  little  son;  so  has 
Anna  de  Bresson;  and  the  children  must  be  a  great 
consolation.  You  see  it  everywhere — the  same, 
and  yet  eternally  different,  as  each  woman  bears 
her  peculiar  burden. 

I  think  I  have  written  you  all  my  news  and  up 
to  the  present  everything  that  has  impressed  me. 

I  went  up  to  the  American  Ambulance  to-day 
(Tuesday).  It  is  very  beautiful  and  more  luxuri- 
ous and  more  like  a  picture-book  than  ever.  Mrs. 
Munroe,  who  has  stood  on  her  feet,  with  I  don^t 
believe  much  respite,  for  ten  months,  has  a  vari- 
cose vein  and  is  now  doing  her  work  lying  in 
an  invalid's  chair.  And  Vera  Arkwright  is  as- 
sistant to  Dr.  Blake  and  doing,  I  believe,  mag- 
nificent work. 

Best  love, 

M. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         191 
Madame  Le  Roux,  New  York, 

Paris,  June  15th,  191 5. 

Dear  Bessie, 

Coming  down  to-day  from  the  Arc  de  Trl- 
omphe  home,  I  counted  36  women  In  widows' 
weeds,  and  then  stopped,  as  it  made  me  too  sad 
to  go  on.  With  two  exceptions,  they  were  all 
very  young;  several  had  little  children  with  them, 
and  most  of  them  were  pretty.  One  of  the  popu- 
lar posters  is  la  Republique  sowing  from  her 
apron  with  a  full  hand  into  the  furrows  of  the 
land.  Many  springs  will  have  to  come,  and  many 
summers,  and  many  harvests,  before  France  can 
fill  her  lists  again. 

The  son  of  the  concierge  is  back  for  seven  days. 
He  was  injured,  by  a  grenade  explosion,  in  the 
liver;  but  in  spite  of  that  injury  and  his  six  weeks 
In  the  hospital,  he  is  sun-browned  and  a  man. 
He  went  away  a  puny  little  clerk  from  the  *'Sa- 
marltaine";  he  has  come  back  a  strong,  sturdy 
soldier.  Those  who  come  back  will  have  learnt 
much,  will  have  broadened  and  deepened  and 
strengthened;  but  the  streets  are  full  of  mutilated 
and  maimed  men,  of  sightless  and  disfigured  men, 
witnesses  to  the  horrible  sequence  of  war. 

Lady  K.  told  such  a  beautiful  thing,  out  at 
Bridget's,  that  I  forgot  to  tell  you  before.  She 
said  that  it  was  bruited  in  England  that  there 
had  been  a  miracle  wrought  when  von  Kluck's 
army  so  unexpectedly  turned  back  from  Paris, 
which  without  doubt  they  could  have  taken.  She 
said  that  It  was  rumoured — and  not  only  In  the 


192  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

ranks,  but  among  higher  men — that  there  ap- 
peared in  the  sky  a  singular  phenomenon,  and 
that  the  German  prisoners  bore  witness  that  a 
cavalcade  like  heavenly  archers  suddenly  filled 
the  heavens  and  shot  down  upon  the  Germans  a 
rain  of  deadly  darts.  As  you  know,  this  was  long 
before  the  use  of  any  asphyxiating  gas  or  tur- 
pinite;  but  on  the  field  were  found  hundreds  of 
Germans,  stone  dead,  immovable,  who  had  fallen 
without  any  apparent  cause.  You  remember  the 
armies  of  the  old  Scriptures  that  ''the  breath  of 
the  Lord  withered  away." 

Lady  K.  said  that  the  rumour  that  the  woods 
of  Compiegne  were  full  of  troops  when  the  Ger- 
mans made  that  famous  retreat  was  absolutely 
untrue.  There  were  no  troops  in  the  forest,  and 
what  they  saw  were,  again,  celestial  soldiers. 

No  doubt  these  tales  come  always  in  the  his- 
tory of  war.  But,  my  dear,  how  beautiful  they 
are — how  much  more  heavenly  and  inspired  than 
the  beatings  on  the  slavish  backs  of  the  German 
Uhlans,  of  the  half-drunken,  brutish  hordes! 
Everywhere  is  the  same  uplifting  spirit.  When 
I  speak  of  Paris  being  sad,  It  is;  but  it  Is  not  de- 
pressing. There  is  a  difference.  If  it  were  not 
for  the  absence  of  those  I  love,  I  would  rather 
be  here  than  anywhere.  In  church  on  Sunday, 
the  Bishop  said  that  at  one  of  the  services  near 
the  firing  line,  when  he  asked  the  question:  "How 
many  of  the  men  here  have  felt,  since  they  came 
out,  a  stirring  in  their  hearts,  an  awakening  of 
the  spirit?''  as  far  as  he  could  see,  every  hand 
was  raised.     And  men  have  gone  home  to  Eng- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         193 

land,  without  arms  and  without  legs,  maimed  for 
life,  and  have  been  heard  to  say  that  In  spite  of 
their  material  anguish  they  regretted  nothing,  for 
they  had  found  their  souls. 

Well,  it's  Impossible,  with  stories  such  as  these, 
to  think  of  anything  but  ultimate  victory  on  our 
side.  Contrast  it  with  the  German  spirit,  with 
the  hymns  of  hate,  with  the  yellings  and  scream- 
ings  of  that  press,  calling  for  more  Lusitanias, 
calling  for  the  wreck  of  the  Ordtina,  demanding 
more  innocent  sacrifice.  Take  the  faces  of  Joffre 
and  the  other  generals  and  put  them  alongside 
von  Hindenburg  and  the  Crown  Prince.  .  .  . 

The  French  Army  has  now  got  Its  new  uniform. 
It  is  called  bleu  d'horizon.  It  is  a  light,  delicate 
blue,  the  colour  of  Faith,  the  colour  of  the  sky 
that  Is  so  beautiful  In  tone  over  France  always; 
and  Its  advantage  Is  that  after  nightfall  not  one 
man  can  be  seen  at  150  yards.  This  Is  the  only 
army  of  which  that  can  be  said.  There  Is  some- 
thing particularly  agreeable  to  me  In  the  thought 
of  that  blue  army — the  colour  of  the  Sacred 
Maid.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  all  credulous  and 
believing  France  thinks  that  the  country  Is  being 
saved  by  Jeanne  d'Arc.  You  hear  them  say  It 
everywhere.  Just  think  of  it.  In  the  twentieth 
century,  my  dear,  when  the  war  is  being  fought 
In  the  air  and  under  the  sea,  by  machines  so  mod- 
ern that  only  the  latest  Invention  can  triumph! 
Think  of  It,  and  then  consider  that  there  remains 
enough  of  spiritual  faith  to  believe  that  the  salva- 
tion of  a  country  comes  through  prayer. 

Yesterday  I  wrote  for  some  time  and  rough- 


194  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

hewed  a  plan  for  *'CarmIchel,"  up  to  the  very 
last  chapter.     I  hope  that  it  will  be  helpful. 

Extraordinary  things  happen  in  war  time.  The 
wife  of  one  of  the  officers  of  General  F.'s  etat 
major  was  allowed  to  visit  him  at  the  front  oc- 
casionally. On  one  of  these  occasions,  one  of  her 
husband's  fellow  officers  said  to  her:  "Ah,  ma- 
dame,  how  I  wish  I  had  a  wife  or  at  least  a  sweet- 
heart— some  one  that  I  could  write  to  and  who 
would  take  an  interest  in  me!" — "Well,  why 
don't  you  get  engaged?"  the  lady  asked. — "I  don't 
know  any  one  to  get  engaged  to !" — "What  sort 
of  a  girl  would  you  like  to  marry?"  asked  Mme. 
B sympathetically. — "Well,"  replied  the  offi- 
cer, "she  should  be  tall,  a  brunette,  intelligent, 
and  a  Dreyfusarde." — "I  know  the  very  girl!" 
exclaimed  the  lady;  "she's  a  friend  of  mine  and  I 
shall  bring  her  photo  to  show  you  next  time  I 
come."  She  kept  her  word  and  the  young  officer 
was  enchanted  with  the  picture  and  promptly 
fell  in  love  with  the  girl  it  represented.  The 
latter,  on  the  other  hand,  had  heard  all  about 
the  forlorn  officer  from  her  friend  and  conceived 
a  great  interest  in  him.  They  began  a  correspond- 
ence.    Everything  went  beautifully,  and  after  a 

time  Captain  asked  the  General   for  two 

days'  leave  to  go  to  Paris  and  get  engaged!  The 
young  people  had  never  previously  set  eyes  on 
each  other;  but  they  both  fell  madly  in  love  when 
they  met  and  the  formal  betrothal  took  place, 
after  which  the  happy  officer  returned  to  his  du- 
ties at  the  front! 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         195 
To  Mr.  E.  B.  Van  Vorst,  Hackensack,  N.  J. 

Paris,  June  17th,  191 5. 

My  dear  Frederick, 

In  regard  to  the  trophies  of  war  of  which  you 
speak,  I  bought  for  you  yesterday  a  German 
sword  from  the  field  of  battle,  a  German  helmet, 
a  German  cartridge  case,  and  a  German  service 
cap.  Of  course.  Allies'  things  would  be  difficult 
to  find.  These  are  all  picturesque.  I  am  going 
to  make  you  a  little  collection  of  souvenirs  and 
send  them  over  to  you  by  express.  Paris  is  full 
of  pretty  ''documents"  of  the  war.  The  big  pow- 
der manufacturer,  Mr.  Dupont  of  the  South,  has 
a  cousin  here — one  of  the  nurses  at  the  Ambu- 
lance— and  she  has  bought  for  him  a  thousand 
dollars'  worth  of  trophies;  but  you  can  imagine 
that  he  wanted  shells,  ammunition,  and  so  forth. 
I  forgot  to  say  that  this  little  group  included  a 
"Soixante-quinze,"  exploded — very  pretty.  You 
can  put  it  In  the  drawing-room  as  an  ornament. 
Also  some  bits  of  obus,  of  which  you  can  make 
paper  weights — all  in  the  $20.  I  am  sorry  they 
are  German. 

It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  the  other 
evening  Mrs.  Waddington — the  niece  of  the  fa- 
mous Mrs.  Waddington — spent  the  evening  with 
me  at  Madame  de  S.'s.  She  had  just  been  to  the 
front  to  see  her  husband,  who  Is  a  Colonel  and 
a  very  brilliant  officer.  He  had  sent  for  her  to 
come,  as  he  had  a  day's  leave.  Think  of  it — 
she  had  not  seen  him  since  the  2nd  of  August! 
How  she  ran  to  him,  figuratively  speaking!     He 


196  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Is  In  the  most  dangerous  part  of  the  front.  The 
French  soldiers  are  not  given  the  leave  that  the 
English  are,  as  you  know.  There  are  almost 
no  home-comings.  Few  of  these  women  have 
been  able  to  see  their  husbands,  unless  they  are 
wounded.  When  she  got  there,  after  rather  a 
perilous  essay,  this  big  bronzed  soldier  came  to 
meet  her  at  the  railway  station,  and  he  only  had 
an  hour.  Think  of  It!  She  told  us  about  it 
so  quietly  and  so  bravely,  her  delicate  pale  face — 
for  she  is  a  great  invalid — illumined  by  the  pa- 
triotism and  the  courage  they  all  show.  She  had 
no  complaint  to  make;  she  was  glad  of  that 
precious  hour.  She  said  that  coming  back  in  the 
train  a  strange  officer,  who  had  a  slight  wound 
and  was  being  sent  to  Paris  with  despatches — a 
perfect  stranger  to  her — sat  down  by  her  side. 
He  said:  'Tardon,  madame;  vous  m*excuserez 
si  je  vous  parle?  Je  n'al  pas  echange  un  mot 
avec  une  femme  depuls  le  jour  de  la  mobilisation 
— pas  un  mot!"  He  had  not  been  one  single 
day  away  from  his  service  since  August.  She 
said  that  he  talked  all  the  three  hours  to  Paris 
— feverishly,  eagerly;  so  glad  to  be  human  once 
again:  and  although  she  had  never  seen  him  be- 
fore, she  felt  as  though  she  had  known  him  al- 
ways by  the  time  they  got  to  the  station.  And 
at  the  end  of  their  little  trip  together,  he  gave 
her  a  little  aluminium  ring  that  his  soldiers  had 
made  in  the  trenches  out  of  a  bit  of  shell  casing. 
He  said  that  they  grow  perfectly  reckless  of 
danger  In  those  long  hours  and  days  of  trench 
life,  and  that  he  has  to  punish  his  men  for  get- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         197 

ting  up  out  of  the  trenches  and  walking  right  into 
the  fire  to  pick  up  a  bit  of  metal  with  which  to 
work  to  while  away  the  tedious  hours. 

One  of  the  touching  things  that  Madame  de 
S.  said  to  me  about  her  adopted  son  who  was 
killed  in  April  was:  *'I  am  sure  he  knew  that 
he  was  going  to  his  death  that  day.  I  feel  so 
sensible  of  his  great  soul-loneliness  on  the  eve  of 
that  terrible  battle,  when  I  am  certain  he  felt 
that  he  was  to  lay  down  his  life."  He  was  one 
of  the  most  courageous  and  brilliant  officers — 
a  born  warrior  and  soldier,  and  one  of  the  hard- 
est workers  I  ever  knew.  It  seems  that  the  night 
before  the  engagement,  he  came  into  his  General's 
quarters  on  the  plea  of  looking  at  one  of  the  maps, 
and  the  General  told  Madame  de  S.  that  as  he 
went  out  he  lingered  on  the  threshold,  and  the 
General  said  to  him:  "Bonne  chance!  mon  en- 
fant." And  the  General  said  to  her:  "I  know 
that  he  did  not  come  to  look  at  the  map.  He 
came  to  make  a  silent  farewell."  Of  course,  it 
is  peculiarly  touching  to  a  woman  who  loved  him 
to  feel  that  what  he  wanted  was  the  human  sym- 
pathy, the  human  touch,  as  he  was  going  out  into 
the  unknown.  The  field  kodaks  that  she  has  of 
him,  which  she  showed  me  last  night,  show  him 
so  changed,  so  aged  and  weary  after  those  long 
hard  months  of  service,  that  I  personally  would 
hardly  have  known  him. 

Many  touching  little  things  have  been  found 
in  the  memorandum  book  that  Henry  carried 
always,  and  the  following  little  lines  he  had  writ- 


198  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

ten  there  the  night  before  he  was  killed.    His  pen 
stopped  with   the   last  words — 

*'I  offer  with  all  my  heart  to  God  the  sacrifice 
of  my  life  for  my  beloved  country  and  for  the 
protection  of  those  I  love,  in  order  to  repair  by 
my  personal  sacrifice  any  ill  I  may  ever  have 
done  to  my  neighbour.  I  thank  without  ceasing 
every  one  who  has  ever  been  good  to  me;  I  pray 
for  them  in  going,  and  I  in  turn  beseech  them  tc^ 
pray  for  me.'* 

My  dear  brother,  I  make  these  quotations  be- 
cause they  give  you  a  little  idea  of  the  heart 
and  soul  and  character  of  the  best  of  young 
France.  It  speaks  well  for  a  country  that  she 
can  nurture  sons  like  this.  .  .  . 

That's  all.    Best  love,  dear,  dear  Frederick. 
Your  devoted  sister, 

M. 


To  Mrs,  Louis  Stoddard,  N.  Y. 

June  25th,  1915. 

My  dear  Mollie, 

Mme.  de  S.  told  me  last  night  that  once  during 
the  last  year  she  had  a  little  spray  of  blossoms 
that  had  been  blessed  by  the  Pope,  and  in  writing 
to  Henry  on  the  field,  she  sent  him  a  little  bit  of 
green — a  tiny  leaf  pinned  on  a  loving  letter. 
When  she  looked  through  the  uniform  sent  back 
to  her,  a  few  days  ago,  in  his  pocket  was  this  little 
card,  all  stained  with  his  blood.  This  card,  with 
her  few  loving  words,  was  all  he  carried  on  him 
into  that  sacred  field.  I  must  not  forget  the  belt  he 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         199 

wore  around  him,  which  she  had  made  with  her 
own  hands,  and  it  contained  some  money  and  in 
one  of  the  folds  of  the  chamois  was  a  prayer  that 
she  had  written  out  for  him.  The  paper  was  so 
worn  with  reading  and  unfolding  and  folding  that 
it  was  like  something  used  by  the  years. 

All  the  night  before  he  went  to  that  great  bat- 
tle, he  spent  in  prayer.  His  aide  told  Mme.  de  S. 
that  he  had  not  closed  his  eyes.  They  say  that 
if  he  could  have  been  taken  immediately  from  the 
field,  he  would  have  been  saved,  for  he  bled  to 
death. 

I  only  suppose  that  you  will  be  interested  in 
these  details  because  they  mark  the  going  out  of 
such  a  brilliant  life,  and  it  is  the  intimate  story 
of  one  soldier  who  has  laid  down  his  life,  after 
months  and  months  of  fighting  and  self-abnegation 
and  loneliness,  on  that  distant  field. 

From  the  time  he  left  her  in  August  until  his 
death,  he  had  never  seen  any  of  his  family — not 
a  soul.  I  want  to  tell  you  the  way  she  said  good- 
bye to  him,  for  I  never  knew  it  until  last  night. 
She  had  expected  him  to  lunch — imagine! — and 
received  the  news  by  telephone  that  he  was  leav- 
ing his  ^^quartier"  in  an  hour.  She  rushed  there 
to  see  the  cuirassiers,  mounted,  in  their  service 
uniform,  the  helmets  all  covered  with  khaki,  clat- 
tering out  of  the  yard.  She  sat  in  the  motor 
and  he  came  out  to  her,  all  ready  to  go ;  and  they 
said  good-bye,  there  in  the  motor,  he  sitting  by 
her  side,  holding  her  hands.  She  said  he  looked 
then  like  the  dead — so  grave.  You  know  he  was 
a  soldier,  passionately  devoted  to  his  career.    He 


200  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

had  made  all  the  African  campaign  and  had  an 
illustrious  record.  She  says  he  asked  her  for  her 
blessing  and  she  lightly  touched  the  helmet  cov- 
ered with  khaki  and  gave  it  him.  And  neither 
shed  a  tear.  And  he  kissed  her  good-bye.  She 
never  saw  him  again.  .  .  . 

She  said  that  his  General  told  her  as  follows: 
*'The  night  before  the  engagement,  Henry  Dadvi- 
sard  came  into  my  miserable  little  shack  on  the 
field.  He  said  to  me :  'Mon  general,  just  show 
me  on  the  map  where  the  Germans  are.'  A  map 
was  hanging  on  the  wall  and  I  indicated  with  my 
finger:  'Les  Allemands  sont  la,  mon  enfant.'  And 
Dadvisard  said:  Why,  Is  that  all  there  Is  to  do 
— ^just  to  go  out  and  attack  them  there?  Why, 
we'll  be  coming  back  as  gaily  as  if  It  were  from 
the  races!'  He  turned  to  go,  saying:  ^Au  revoir, 
mon  general.'  But  at  the  door  he  paused,  and  I 
looked  up  and  saw  him  and  he  said:  ^ Adieu,  mon 
general.'  And  then  I  saw  in  his  eyes  a  singular 
look,  something  like  an  appeal  from  one  human 
soul  to  another,  for  a  word,  a  touch,  before  going 
out  to  that  sacrifice.  I  did  not  dare  to  say  any- 
thing but  what  I  did  say:  'Bon  courage,  mon  en- 
fant; bonne  chancel'    And  he  went.   .  .  ." 

After  telling  me  this,  Mme.  de  S.  took  out  his 
watch,  which  she  carries  with  her  now — a  gold 
watch,  with  his  crest  upon  it — the  one  he  had  car- 
ried through  all  his  campaigns,  with  the  soldier's 
rough  chain  hanging  from  it.  It  had  stopped  at 
half-past  ten;  as  he  had  wound  it  the  night  before, 
the  watch  had  gone  on  after  his  heart  had  ceased 
to  beat.  ... 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         201 

The  day  before  Henry  left  his  own  company 
of  Cuirassiers  to  go  into  the  dangerous  and  ter- 
rible experiences  of  the  trenches,  to  take  up  that 
duty  which  ended  in  his  laying  down  his  life,  he 
gathered  his  men  together  and  bade  them  good- 
bye. Last  night  dear  Mme.  de  S.  showed  me  his 
soldier's  note-book,  in  which  he  had  written  the 
few  words  that  he  meant  to  say  to  his  men.  I 
begged  her  to  let  me  have  them:  I  give  them  to 
you.  This  address  stands  to  me  as  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  things  I  have  ever  read. 

General  Foch  paid  him  a  fine  tribute  when  he 
mentioned  him  in  despatches,  and  this  mention 
of  him  was  accompanied  by  the  bestowal  of  the 
Croix  de  Guerre. 

"Henry  Dadvisard,  warm  hearted  and  vibrant; 
a  remarkable  leader  of  men.  He  asked  to  be 
transferred  to  the  infantry,  in  order  to  offer  more 
fully  to  his  country  his  admirable  military  talents. 
He  fell  gloriously  on  the  27th  April,  leading  an 
attack  at  the  head  of  his  company.'* 


To  Mme.  Hugues  le  Roux,  N,  7. 

Paris,  June  30th,  191 5. 

Dear  Bessie, 

I  am  sure  that  to-morrow  I  shall  have  a  real 
letter  from  you.  You  must  be  enjoying  that  won- 
derful country  to  the  full,  and  glad  that  you  are 
there  at  last,  aren't  you? 

It  is  hard  for  me  to  remember  what  I  have 
told  in  the  different  letters,  and  I  run  the  risk  of 
repeating. 


202  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

I  went  the  other  night  to  see  "La  Princesse 
Georges,"  at  the  Frangais.  It  Is  hard  to  realise 
that  such  acting  and  pieces  are  still  going  on. 
The  house  was  crowded,  I  am  glad  to  say,  for  the 
poor  Socletalres'  sake. 

You  said  once,  during  the  spring,  before  you 
came  over,  that  whether  or  not  I  was  lonely,  I 
should  enjoy  the  beauty  of  Paris.  I  have  never 
seen  anything  more  marvellous  than  It  has  been — 
almost  deserted,  really.  Sometimes  I  walk  In 
streets  where  there  Is  literally  no  one;  and,  of 
course,  at  night,  as  I  often  return  at  half-past 
ten  or  eleven,  It  is  like  walking  through  a  deserted 
village — and  such  darkness !  Coming  out  of  the 
theatre,  I  walked  home  from  the  Frangals,  and  I 
never  saw  anything  so  wonderful  as  that  night. 
The  moon  was  full;  the  only  lights  lit  were  here 
and  there  one,  then  another;  and  Paris  was  as  It 
must  have  been  centuries  ago,  left  In  all  Its  beauty 
to  the  night  alone.  I  leaned  on  the  bridge  and 
saw  the  shadows  of  the  bridges  and  the  reflections 
of  the  houses  Immovable  In  the  calm  water  of  the 
Seine,  and  overhead  such  a  divine  sky. 

I  went  to  call  on  Mrs.  Walter  Gay,  and  found 
her  In  her  lovely  room  on  the  garden.  She  was 
very  cordial.  Last  summer  the  Germans  were 
within  fifteen  miles  of  her  chateau.  They  burled 
everything  of  value  In  the  garden,  and  with  a  few 
Inhabitants  of  the  village,  who  dared  to  remain, 
Mrs.  Gay  and  her  husband  stood  by  their  posses- 
sions, because,  as  she  said:  "I  would  not  leave 
the  few  villagers  who  had  remained."    Of  course, 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         203 

as  you  know,  the  miracle  of  the  Marne  took  place, 
and  the  detour  was  made. 

I  found  the  Matin  letter  to-day  (Monday), 
with  its  news  from  Harvard,  thrilling  and  beauti- 
fully put.  Julie  writes :  *'How  closely  the  Matin 
keeps  us  in  touch  with  America !"  I  need  scarcely 
say  that  it's  the  first  thing  I  read — that  letter 
from  you  and  home. 

If  the  girls  and  Violet  have  shared  with  you 
what  I  have  written  them,  you  are  au  courant  with 
all  the  tragedy  of  Henry  Dadvisard's  death. 

Isn't  it  charming  that  they  call  the  soldiers'  new 
uniform  "bleu  d'horizon"? 

I  am  very  glad  that  when  Robert  went  to  Eng- 
land he  made  some  of  the  real  spirit  of  England 
felt  when  he  came  back  and  wrote  for  the  Matin. 
I  don't  think  it  has  been  properly  noted,  the 
amount  of  ammunition  that  England  has  sent  to 
Serbia,  Italy,  everywhere;  and  if  England  has 
continued  her  commerce,  it's  fortunate  that  she 
has,  isn't  it?  considering  that  she  has  supplied 
boots  and  clothing  to  France,  and  boots  and  cloth- 
ing to  Serbia,  and  that  the  output  of  the  English 
factories  to  the  countries  at  war  has  been  per- 
fectly tremendous.  It  is  absolutely  sickening  to 
me  to  think  that  France  and  England,  fighting  to- 
gether for  the  civilisation  of  the  world,  should 
not  mutually  appreciate  and  value  each  other  as 
they  ought.  I  am  sure  that  it  is  all  this  petty 
jealousy — ^you  know  what  I  think  about  jealousy, 
anyway — the  jealousies  of  us  all — that  has  created 
what  is  going  on. 

I  have  been  in  the  throes  of  trying  to  decide 


204  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

whether  or  not  to  take  the  apartment  downstairs 
and  throw  it  into  this,  or  to  take  the  empty  one 
on  the  fourth  floor  at  No.  6,  a  nice  house,  clean 
concierges,  lift,  and  so  forth  and  so  on.  I  never 
saw  anything  as  sweet  as  the  little  place  is  to-day; 
it  grows  mellower  and  mellower,  and  dirtier  and 
dirtier !  The  painter  has  suggested  asking  frs.500 
for  painting  the  escalier  de  service.  This  is  what 
I  should  call  "war  paint"  ! 


To  Mrs,  Morawetz,  New  York. 

Paris,  June  22Dd,  191 5. 

Dear  Violet, 

I  went  out  the  other  day  with  Madame  Marie 
to  Versailles,  en  auto.  I  wanted  to  see  the  little 
hospital  that  Anne  Morgan  and  Bessie  Marbury 
have  given  out  there.  One  of  their  pretty  little 
houses  is  in  the  charge  of  some  gentle-faced  sis- 
ters of  charity,  and  out  in  the  garden,  with  the 
roses  blooming  and  the  sweet-scented  hay  being 
raked  in  great  piles,  were  sitting  a  lieutenant,  con- 
valescing, and  his  commandant,  who  had  come  to 
see  him,  also  wounded.  Both  men  wore  the 
Legion  of  Honour  on  their  breasts.  They  were 
talking  about  the  campaign.  The  lieutenant  wore 
his  kepi  well  down  over  his  face;  he  was  totally 
blind  for  ever,  at  thirty!  His  interest  in  talking 
to  his  superior  officer  was  so  great  that  you  can 
fancy  I  only  stopped  a  second  to  speak  to  him. 
There  were  great  scars  on  his  hands  and  his  face 
and  neck  were  scarred  too.  I  heard  him  say,  as 
I  turned  to  walk  away:    "J'aime  aussi  causer  des 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         205 

jours  quand  nous  etions  collegiens  a  Salnt-Cyr. 
Ces  souvenirs  sont  plus  doux."  It  was  terribly 
touching. 

I  had  an  interesting  letter  from  Madelon.  She 
says:  'We  are  on  the  Ypres  Road,  five  miles 
from  Ypres.  The  country  is  marvellous,  and  it 
seems  awful  that  it  is  all  being  destroyed  by  those 
fiendish  shells.  Every  once  in  so  often  they  make 
hash  of  the  scenery,  and  the  guns  are  always 
banging,  and  the  sky  is  all  lit  up  with  the  mag- 
nesium flares.  I  have  got  no  one  to  keep  me 
company.  Things  were  awfully  slack  for  a  while, 
and  we  thought  there  would  not  be  any  more 
fighting  this  way;  but  it's  on  again  now,  and  we 
are  busy  day  and  night.  We  sleep  on  the  hay- 
stacks with  the  rats  and  the  bats.  A  cow  carried 
off  my  sheets,  but  somebody — God  knows  who — 
sent  me  a  tent,  and  I  slept  down  by  a  branch  of  the 
Yser,  cows  grazing  at  my  feet,  and  shells  scream- 
ing over  my  head.  .  .  ." 


To  Miss  Anna  Lusk,  N.  Y. 

4,  Place  du  Palais  Bourbon, 
Paris,  June  22nd,  191 5. 

Dear  Anna, 

I  have  not  answered  your  sweet  letter  or 
thanked  you  for  your  welcoming  cable,  but  I  do 
so  now  for  both  very  sincerely. 

I  have  only  been  once  or  twice  to  the  Ambu- 
lance since  I  came  back — this  time  as  a  visitor; 
and  I  am  more  and  more  impressed  with  the  or- 
ganisation.   You  cannot  think  what  good  has  been 


2o6  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

done  there,  or  how  the  devotion  of  the  women 
who  have  stayed  there  since  the  beginning  has 
impressed  me,  who  only  remained  eight  weeks. 
Mrs.  Munroe  has  varicose  veins  in  her  legs  from 
standing  so  much,  and  finally  had  to  go  down  to 
Limoges  for  treatment,  but  she  is  back.  The 
work  done  there  in  the  operating-rooms  is  mar- 
vellous. An  English  nurse  was  telling  me  last 
night  that  she  had  never  in  all  her  life  dreamed 
of  such  miracles  of  surgery.  Harvey  Gushing  is 
among  the  operators,  as  you  know,  from  Harvard, 
and  she  told  me  one  special  incident  of  interest. 
A  general  had  been  there  who,  when  viewing  the 
field  through  his  field-glasses,  was  struck  by  a 
bullet  which  drove  the  glass  of  his  lorgnon  right 
through  his  eye,  back  into  his  brain.  Imagine  the 
disfigurement  of  that  man,  and  think  of  his  having 
lived!  Gushing  opened  the  back  of  his  head  and 
took  out  tin  and  glass,  and  goodness  knows  what 
not,  and  except  that  he  is  blind  in  one  eye,  that 
general  is  as  good  as  ever,  and  loud  in  his  praises 
of  the  surgery. 

Madame  de  S.  told  me  yesterday  of  a  young 
boy  whom  she  knows,  who  enlisted,  at  fourteen, 
in  his  own  father's  regiment.  He  has  been  twice 
taken  prisoner,  and  the  last  time  was  sentenced 
by  the  Germans  to  be  shot  as  a  spy — at  fourteen ! 
The  little  fellow  tried  to  escape,  but  was  caught; 
but  the  German  soldier  who  was  sent  out  to  exe- 
cute him  told  the  boy  that  if  he  had  twenty  francs 
on  him  he  would  let  him  go.  The  little  boy  did 
happen  to  have  frs.20,  which  he  gave  to  his  exe- 
cutioner, and  he  is  now  here  in  Paris,  under  his 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         207 

mother's  wing.    Mme.  de  S.  knows  him  well,  and 
has  talked  with  him.     Isn't  it  amusing? 

One  of  the  trained  nurses  here — notably  one 
who  had  been  at  Mrs.  Thayer's  house  in  Boston, 
when  I  spoke  for  the  Ambulance,  and  who  offered 
her  services  that  week  for  the  soldiers,  told  me 
that  she  had  one  man  in  her  ward  to  save  whose 
arm  the  doctors  and  nurses  of  that  special  part 
of  the  hospital  had  struggled  since  October.  His 
sufferings  have  been  terrible,  poor  thing,  and  the 
other  day  they  had  to  amputate  it  after  all.  It 
was  done  by  the  surgeon  of  the  Harvard  Unit, 
and  Miss  Giles  helped  him.  She  said  that  he 
and  she  and  the  other  nurses  too  cried,  and  weren't 
ashamed  of  it,  when  they  took  off  that  arm  at 
last.  Nobody  was  willing  to  tell  his  wife,  who 
came  often  to  see  her  husband.  Finally,  Miss 
Giles  volunteered,  and  she  went  to  tell  the  poor 
little  woman  that  her  husband  had  only  one  arm. 
Instead  of  greeting  her,  as  she  expected  that  she 
would,  with  tears,  the  little  woman,  with  a  radiant 
smile,  exclaimed:  "Oh,  he's  all  mine  now!  The 
war  will  never  have  him  again!" 


To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 

Paris,  July  12th,   191 5. 

Dearest  Belle, 

Mme.  de  S.  is  going  next  week  on  the  cruel  an(i 
dreadful  mission  of  disinterring  her  beloved  dead. 
She  is  going  down  into  the  tomb  in  Belgium — if 
she  can  get  through — to  take  her  boy  out  of  the 


2o8  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

charnel  house,  where  he  is  buried  under  six  other 
coffins.  "God  has  his  soul,"  she  says;  "I  only  ask 
his  body"  ...  if  she  can  find  it.  She  has  told 
no  one  of  her  griefs,  but  to  me;  and  she  bears 
herself  like  a  woman  of  twenty-five,  gallantly — in- 
terested more  keenly  in  everything  that  concerns 
mc  to  the  smallest  degree  than,  I  may  say,  any 
friend  I  have  ever  known;  for  even  in  this  time 
of  anguish,  she  has  taken  infinite  pains  for  me,  in 
every  httle  detail.     I  shall  never  forget  it. 

The  weather  is  too  glorious  for  words — a  suc- 
cession of  charming,  balmy,  sun-filled  and  breeze- 
lifted  days;  with  the  most  wonderful  skies.  You 
have  seen  them  in  Watteau,  and  in  the  landscapes 
of  the  eighteenth  century;  and  we  see  them  every 
day !  As  I  look  out  of  my  window,  there  is  noth- 
ing but  beauty  to  see — the  exquisite  lines  of  the 
Palais  Bourbon,  and  of  the  old  houses,  with  the 
glimpses  of  waving  trees  above  them;  and  one 
after  another  over  us  pass  these  divine  midsum- 
mer nights,  when  across  the  stars  passes  the  star 
of  an  aeroplane  and  the  night's  mystery  is  en- 
hanced. I  never  wake  but  I  get  up  and  go  to 
my  window,  and  I  open  it  at  different  hours — at 
dawn  sometimes,  at  midnight  others — in  the  flush- 
ing or  the  paling  sky,  or  in  the  mystery  of  mid- 
night. 

So  many  voices  have  spoken  to  me  this  time, 
and  strangely  enough,  my  tempestuous  heart  has 
listened  to  them  all.  It  seems  that  this  dreadful 
ban  of  lonely  complaint  has  been  lifted  from  me. 
I  suppose  we  can  learn  to  endure  everything,  or 
else  we  are  brought  to  see  it  differently;  but  I 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         209 

have  found  friends  in  the  very  solitude  itself. 
If  I  do  not  say  I  have  grown  to  love  it,  it  is 
only  because  I  don't  want  to  love  a  lonely,  selfish 
existence.  There  is  very  great  beauty  now  in  my 
life.  I  have  never  said  this  before,  but  just  now 
I  feel  it.  There  are  activities  all  around  this  un- 
shared oasis.  I  have  what  you  once  called  my 
"sacred  work,"  and  it  is  very  precious.  Poor  as 
it  is  and  unimportant  as  it  is,  it  brings  into  play 
activities  that  love  to  be  exercised,  and  I  have  en- 
joyed it  hugely.  There  is  a  fascination  in  the 
fact  that  nobody  can  say  to  me:  "Do  this  or  do 
that.  Come  here  or  Go  there."  That  I  can  shut 
my  doors  and  be  alone.  If  I  wanted  to  open  them, 
there  is  no  one  to  come;  and  that  is  not  fascinat- 
ing at  all ! 

Mrs.  Munroe  asked  me  to  take  a  little  interest 
in  the  electrical  treatment  at  the  hospital.  As 
it  is  given  in  a  room  all  by  itself,  downstairs,  far 
from  the  madding  phantasmagoria  of  wounds  and 
operations,  and  pretty  nurses  and  fascinating  aux- 
iliaries— not  to  speak  of  the  orderlies  and  the  doc- 
tors— the  poor  little  job  has  fallen  to  the  ground. 
Nobody  wants  to  go  in  and  sit  down  all  alone 
and  give  electrical  treatment;  so  one  by  one  the 
infirmieres  have  given  out.  I  went  there  at  eight 
o'clock  the  day  before  yesterday.  I  don't  think 
I  ever  saw  anything  more  touching  than  the  use- 
less members  that  were  brought  to  me  for  the 
stimulating  effect — if  it  could  stimulate — of  that 
little  electric  tampon.  Those  arms,  once  so  vig- 
orous and  so  useful.  ... 

'^Qu'etiez-vous  de  votre  metier,  mon  ami?" 


2IO  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

''J'etais  dans  les  batlments,  madame." 
A  house-builder — building,  constructing,  mak- 
ing for  civilisation  and  happy  homes!  From 
shoulder  to  elbow  ran  two  great  red  healed  scars. 
They  looked  like  the  railroad  tracks,  deep  laid, 
marking  where  the  train  of  a  shell  had  passed. 
From  the  elbow  down  to  the  vigorous  hand, 
everything  was  paralysed.  The  man  was  a  splen- 
did fellow.  He  has  a  wife  and  two  children,  and 
he  worries  himself  sick  because  the  woman  is  ill 
and  the  children  are  delicate.  No  longer  ''dans 
les  batiments,"  he  has  been  eight  months  at  the 
Ambulance,  wearing  out  his  soul.  Looking  down 
at  his  hand,  he  said  to  me:  'Tourvu  que  ga 
marche,  madame,  un  de  ces  jours!" 

There  is  one  gay  officer  of  twenty-nine,  and  six 
feet  two.  I  don't  think  you'd  speak  of  "little  in- 
significant Frenchmen"  if  you  could  see  him !  He's 
superb.  One  finger  off  on  the  left  hand,  and  the 
right  hand  utterly  useless.  So  we  work  at  that  for 
fifteen  minutes,  and  all  the  little  group  of  soldiers 
linger,  because  they  love  him  so — he's  so  killing, 
so  witty,  so  gay.  He  screams  in  mock  agony,  and 
laughs  and  makes  the  most  outrageous  jokes ;  and 
when  he  has  gone,  one  of  them  says  to  me :  "II 
est  adore  par  ses  hommes,  madame ;  il  est  si  cour- 
ageux."  The  spirit  between  men  and  officers  is 
so  beautiful  in  the  French  army.  They  are  all 
brothers.  None  of  that  lordly,  arrogant  oppres- 
sion of  the  Germans.  One  of  the  soldiers  said 
to  me:  "II  n'y  a  pas  de  grade,  maintenant,  ma- 
dame. Nous  sommes  tous  des  hommes  qui  aiment 
le  pays." 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         211 

And  Lieutenant ,  of  whom  I  have  just  been 

speaking.  I  said  to  him:  **Tell  me  something 
about  the  campaign,  monsieur.*'  And  he  an- 
swered: *'Oh,  madame,  I  would  like  to  tell  you 
about  the  men.  They're  superb.  I  have  never 
seen  anything  like  it.  I  had  to  lead  a  charge  with 
156  men  Into  what  we  all  believed  was  certain 
death.  Why,"  he  said,  "they  went  like  school- 
boys— shouting,  laughing,  pushing  each  other  up 
the  parapet.  .  .  .  We  came  back  nine  strong,"  he 
said. 

I  immensely  enjoyed  seeing  Mrs.  Bacon  and 
seeing  Mr.  Bacon's  enthusiasm.  It's  wonderful 
to  have  such  Americans  living.  I  wish  that  a 
whole  band  of  American  women  could  forget 
everything  in  the  world  but  the  French  and  their 
need,  and  that  they  would  come  over  here  and 
work  in  the  fields  and  help  bring  In  the  harvest,  if 
nothing  else. 

The  head  of  the  ambulance  cars  at  the  hospital 
yesterday  told  me  that  there  would  soon  be  a 
great  need  for  ambulance  drivers  and  men,  as  the 
heat  of  the  summer  grows  greater,  and  the  tired 
ones  go  home. 

Ellen  La  Motte  went  to  the  front  at  Dunkerque 
and  the  town  where  they  were  staying  was  bom- 
barded. The  shells  fell  all  about  them,  and  they 
were  shut  up  and  not  allowed  to  go  out  for  four- 
teen hours.  They  sat  playing  cards  and  eating 
chocolates,  not  knowing  whether  at  any  moment, 
right  in  their  midst,  an  explosion  would  not  end 
their  life.    She  said  she  was  frightened  to  death, 


212  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

and  it  was  perfectly  horrible.  If  they'd  been 
working  on  the  field,  I  suppose  it  would  have  been 
different. 

I  was  sitting  here  the  other  day  when  my  dear 
friend  Victor  Ballet,  now  docteur-major,  came  in. 
He  has  just  dined  with  me  and  spent  the  evening, 
and  I  have  enjoyed  him  enormously.  He  says — 
and  I  really  suppose  that  you  might  at  least  take 
his  word  for  it — that  the  French  dead  number 
400,000,  and  that  the  Germans  have  hors  de  com- 
bat, since  the  beginning  of  the  war,  4  million  men. 

A  friend  of  Miss  La  Motte's — Mrs.  Chadburne 
— has  just  received  word  from  Berlin  through 
Switzerland,  from  a  woman  in  a  high  official  posi- 
tion in  Berlin,  that  if  she  values  her  life  she  should 
leave  Paris  immediately.  It's  awfully  consoling, 
isn't  it?  This  letter  must  have  taken  at  least  ten 
days  to  reach  her,  and  at  the  time  it  was  written 
things  were  not  looking  as  well  as  they  do  now. 

No  more  at  present. 

Ever  yours, 

M. 

To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz. 

Paris,  July  14th,  191 5. 

Dear  Violet, 

The  world  is  so  callous  and  so  indifferent,  and 
over  here  we  feel  very  bitterly  at  times  the  indif- 
ference of  America  to  the  causes  at  stake.  I  can 
see  it  at  the  Ambulance,  as  expressed  by  those 
who  have  just  come  from  America.  As  long  as 
their   pockets   are    bulging   and   they're    making 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         213 

money,  Americans  can  be  slaughtered  on  the  seas, 
and  France  can  fight  for  her  beauty  and  her  soul, 
and  it's  all  the  same  to  the  majority  at  home. 
Thank  God  there  are  Americans  still  that  don't 
feel  that  way;  but,  as  always,  the  elite  are  few. 

It  is  sweet  of  you  to  say  you  miss  me.  I  am 
very  glad  that  you  do  think  of  me  sometimes, 
only  the  past  is  so  vague  and  dim  compared  with 
your  busy  absorbed  present,  with  your  house  and 
its  interest,  and  your  travelling  and  the  new  peo- 
ple, that  it's  like  looking  into  a  camera  obscura 
and  seeing  a  picture  whose  tones  are  soft — not 
vivid  enough  to  create  very  much  impression. 

This  is  the  fourteenth  of  July.  You  remember 
how  many,  many  times  we've  seen  it  come  and  go 
here  together.  This  morning  I  was  in  the  street 
before  eight,  going  up  to  the  Ambulance.  I 
stopped  to  see  mother,  and  greet  her.  Then  I  left 
a  note  at  Cousin  Lottie's,  and  then  went  on  to 
the  hospital.  I  must  tell  you  about  my  electric 
work  there. 

The  first  day  I  took  It  on,  the  machine  didn't 
go,  and  no  one  in  the  place  seemed  to  understand 
anything  about  it.  After  having  walked  three  or 
four  miles,  and  escaped  detection,  I  looked  on 
the  plaque  of  the  machine  and  found  out  where 
it  was  made — Paris,  fortunately,  or  I  should  have 
been  tramping  still!  I  wrapped  it  up  in  brown 
paper,  took  it  in  my  arms,  coralled  one  of  the 
hospital  ambulance  motors,  and  went  to  the  fac- 
tory, at  the  back  of  the  Observatory.  The  thing 
was  put  in  order  in  no  time.  Moreover,  they  ex- 
plained it  to  me,  and  taught  me  its  intricacies,  and 


214  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

then  I  fetched  it  home.  All  the  following  day 
I  encountered  people  who  kept  saying  to  me: 
"It's  too  bad  there  isn't  any  electric  treatment, 
Isn't  It?  The  machine  doesn't  work."  I  smiled, 
for  I  hid  It  under  a  mattress  when  I  left,  so  that 
nobody  should  make  It  not  work  In  my  absence,  If 
I  could  help  It! 

I  didn't  expect  to  like  this  department,  but  I 
do  like  It  awfully.  I  am  all  alone  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hospital,  In  a  room  screened  off  by  Itself. 
Back  of  me  they  are  making  plaster  casts  for  piti- 
ful limbs.  A  little  further  on,  a  locksmith  ham- 
mers and  bangs  all  day  long;  but  somehow,  I  don't 
hear  him.  And  there  ten  to  sixteen  men  come  to 
me  every  day,  and  I  work  from  a  little  after  eight 
till  twelve.  Then  I  go  to  one  or  two  In  the  wards. 
I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  all  work  Is 
fascinating,  for  one  after  another,  as  I  take  up 
different  activities,   each  has  Its  charm. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  after  Mrs.  Vanderbllt  left, 
Mrs.  George  Munroe  took  her  place,  and  Is  really 
directress  of  the  American  Ambulance  now?  She 
has  been  perfectly  wonderful.  I  don't  think  there 
are  any  words  too  strong  to  speak  In  praise  of 
her.  I  surely  feel  It  so,  and  I  know  that  France 
will  echo  this.  Since  the  day  the  hospital  opened, 
in  August,  until  to-day,  she  has  had  no  holiday. 
From  early  morning  until  night,  and  sometimes 
all  night  long  Mrs.  Munroe  has  been  on  duty — 
nursing,  directing,  overseeing.  Her  health  has 
been  very  much  impaired  and  broken,  and  who  can 
wonder?    She  came  Into  the  hospital  looking  like 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         215 

a  rose,  and  now  she  looks  like  a  lily.  It  Is  a 
beautiful  thing  to  feel  that  she  has  given  so  com- 
pletely all  her  forces  and  vitality  to  serve  her 
adopted  country. 

On  Sunday  I  went  out  to  Mrs.  Whitney's  hos- 
pital at  Juilly.  There  she  is  taking  care  of  256 
wounded  men.  Mother's  one-time  companion, 
Miss  Hansen,  has  a  ward  with  25  men,  and  she 
has  no  auxiliary! 

The  hospital  was  once  an  old  college,  part  of 
it  dating  from  the  twelfth  century;  and  the  piping. 
In  some  Instances,  had  to  be  carried  through  walls 
twelve  feet  thick!  There  Is  a  beautiful  garden, 
with  swans  sailing  about  on  the  ponds;  and  It's  a 
great  sight  altogether  to  see  what  the  enterprise 
and  generosity  of  one  woman  has  done.  As  far 
as  I  can  judge,  the  organisation  Is  admirable. 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Brewer  are  at  the  head,  with  a  fine 
Columbia  contingent.  Personally,  I  should  think 
that  every  woman  to  whom  France  has  given  so 
much  all  these  years  would  do  something  now  to 
prove  her  unselfish  devotion.  We  were  much 
touched  by  Mrs.  Bacon's  coming,  and  It  gave  a 
great  deal  of  courage  to  every  one.  She  is  a 
brick,  and  I  like  her  awfully. 

After  lunch,  Miss  Methley  and  I  went  to  the 
battlefield  of  the  Marne.  You  call  It  a  battlefield, 
but  now.  In  the  generous  course  of  time,  on  all 
sides  has  grown  up  the  season's  grain.  There  are 
the  rye  and  barley  and  wheat  harvests,  green  and 
yellow,  abundant  and  beautiful,  their  tide  stemmed 
only  here  and  there  by  white  crosses  and  black 


2i6  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

crosses,  as  the  soldiers'  graves  shine  out  amid  the 
grain.    Oh,  the  spiritual  lesson  here  Is  so  great  I 

"If  a  man  die,  shall  he  live  again?" 

Yes,  In  glory,  In  the  making  of  the  newer  fields — 
his  blood  and  his  valour  the  seeds  for  a  more 
spiritual  harvest  to  his  country  and  for  his  kin. 
The  seed  cannot  be  quickened  until  It  has  lain 
underground.  So  It  seems,  as  one  thinks  of  It, 
as  though  England  and  France  had  been  obliged 
to  sow  these  Fields  of  Time  with  living  seed. 

Here  and  there  were  ruined  churches  and  a 
few  broken-In  houses ;  and  further  along  the  new 
entrenchments  for  great  guns,  in  case  of  Paris 
being  threatened  again.  But  there  was  not  much 
more  to  see  than  this.  Still,  over  all  the  land  and 
over  everything  we  did,  there  was  the  spirit  of 
excitement  and  of  war.  At  the  little  station, 
even,  as  we  took  the  train  later,  one  man  was 
bidding  his  mother  and  wife  and  little  family 
good-bye  as  he  went  to  the  front.  The  women's 
faces  were  heart-rending,  but  the  man  was  brave 
and  gay,  his  face  set  toward  la-has. 

The  first-class  carriage  Into  which  we  tumbled 
was  full  of  offi<:ers — seven  of  them — going  home, 
my  dear,  for  the  first  time  since  the  war  began, 
eleven  months  ago.  I  wish  you  could  have  been 
there  and  sat  by  my  side  during  that  hour's  jour- 
ney. To  my  left  was  a  captain  In  the  Chasseurs 
d'Afrique — a  man  of  about  fifty,  and  without 
doubt  he  would  find  in  Paris  no  one  to  make  him 
welcome.    But  the  others — in  the  cavalry,  in  the 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         217 

artillery,  in  the  infantry — all  in  different  uniforms 
— high  boots  and  trench  boots — every  one  shaved 
clean  and  neat,  and  yet  bearing  upon  them  the 
marks  of  the  campaign — weather-beaten,  rugged, 
eager;  and  yet  still,  in  the  eyes  of  some  of  them, 
dazed  bewilderment,  as  though  they  had  been 
brought  back  too  suddenly  into  the  quiet  and  into 
security.  It  was  to  me  a  very  impressive  journey, 
and  at  the  Gare  du  Nord  the  tide  of  blue  seemed 
to  surge  out  through  the  station  into  the  Sunday 
streets.  It  flooded  the  cafes  and  Metros  and 
taxis — everywhere,  the  men  coming  home  for  four 
days,  for  eight  days  at  most,  snatched  from  the 
living  death,  given  back  to  caresses  and  tenderness, 
to  tears  and  to  thanksgiving — to  be  torn  away 
again  so  soon  ...  so  soon. 

Of  course  I  have  become  very  much  interested 
in  the  group  of  men  to  whom  I  give  electricity. 
The  patience  and  dignity  of  these  soldiers  is  a 
constant  lesson;  and  they  are  so  polite  and  so 
grateful — such  splendid  fellows — and  it  Is  so 
dreadful  to  see  their  mutilations. 

I  am  quite  conscious  that  all  I  write  now  seems 
a  repetition  of  an  old  story,  probably  tiresome  to 
you.  I  can  only,  my  dear,  envy  myself  deeply. 
I  cannot  envy  all  of  you  over  there — not  at  all. 
I  would  not  have  missed,  for  any  luxurious  Im- 
munity In  the  world,  or  for  any  family  life,  or 
for  anything,  the  wine  I  have  been  permitted  to 
drink  at  the  table  of  France  and  of  England  too. 
The  very  trifling  bit  that  I  have  been  able  to 
do,  I  cannot  help  but  feel,  has  linked  me  In- 
dissolubly  with  these  suffering  countries,  whose 


2i8  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

ideals  and  whose  standards  are  the  ones  for  which 
my  own  country  has  already  fought  and  for  which 
it  stands.  If  I  were  a  man,  I  should  have  joined 
the  Foreign  Legion  long  ago. 

We  hear  with  interest  of  the  good  service 
done  by  the  American  aviators;  and  nothing  that 
has  been  said  in  America  has  seemed  to  me  more 
beautiful  than  the  Harvard  young  man's  address 
at  his  graduating  class,  as  Hugues  le  Roux  quotes 
it  in  the  Matin. 

Dr.  Brewer,  at  Mrs.  Whitney's  ambulance,  said 
that  all  the  surrounding  country  was  dependent 
upon  the  ambulance  for  medical  aid,  as  all  the 
French  doctors  were  at  the  front.  So  one  of  the 
young  surgeons  has  undertaken  the  "sante  du 
pays"  and  gallantly  sets  forth,  when  he  has  time 
from  the  "blesses,"  in  a  little  grey  motor,  to  do 
the  country  rounds,  and  to  bring  babies  into  the 
world,  and  the  like  and  the  like.  As  he  is  not  a 
gynaecologist,  he  has  been  up  against  it  sometimes, 
and  finally  stood  blankly  before  a  very  ailing  week- 
old  baby,  seemingly  not  at  all  tenacious  of  life. 
The  little  Frenchman  didn't  want  to  ''grow  up  to 
be  a  soldier,"  born  though  he  was  in  the  war  zone, 
within  sound  of  the  guns.  So  the  young  surgeon, 
whose  French  vocabulary  was  very  limited,  and 
whose  knowledge  of  baby  feeding  was  more  so, 
said  to  the  mother  that  he  thought  what  the  kid 
wanted  was  ** solid  food** !  This,  of  course,  being 
perfectly  unintelligible  to  the  peasant  woman,  did 
not  pull  matters  along  very  far,  and  the  young 
man  bethought  himself  of  the  only  French  vege- 
table he  knew  by  name — choufleur — and  he  con- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         219 

veyed  to  the  mother  the  Idea  that  she  must  give  the 
baby  cauliflower/  What  she  did  about  it,  I  don*t 
know,  but  the  sick  baby  got  well,  and  will  be  all 
ready  for  the  Germans  in  1935. 

Dr.  Brewer  also  at  luncheon  told  us  of  an 
American  crossing  on  one  of  the  Channel  boats. 
He  said  to  the  steward:  "Where  are  your  life- 
belts, steward?  I  don't  see  them  anywhere." 
And  the  steward,  looking  at  him  sarcastically, 
said:  "Are  you  one  of  them  damned  fools  that 
thinks  every  boat's  going  to  sink?"  And  the 
gentleman  replied:  "Are  you  one  of  those 
damned  fools  that  thinks  no  boat's  going  to  sink? 
I  was  on  the  LusitaniaJ* 

Dr.  Brewer  told  us  that  the  British  War  Office 
had  cabled  to  the  Columbia  people  that  the  need 
of  surgeons  and  nurses  was  very  great.  So  many 
English  surgeons  have  laid  down  their  lives  al- 
ready, and,  of  course,  the  active  need  for  them  is 
tremendous.  Dr.  Brewer  said  that  three  con- 
tingents of  thirty-six  surgeons  and  seventy-five 
nurses  had  already  been  sent  from  Columbia,  and 
that  altogether  there  are  about  two  hundred 
American  surgeons,  and  four  or  ^vt  hundred 
nurses  over  here.  Also  that  nearly  all  the  first 
batch  of  nurses  and  doctors  who  went  to  Serbia 
had  died.  I  think  these  glorious  things  ought  to 
be  known,  and  that  the  people  should  have  the. 
credit  due  for  them. 

Last  year,  when  I  wrote  to  you  from  here,  I 
was  still  so  personally  conscious  of  my  own  soli- 
tude and  of  what  I  wanted  and  could  not  have, 


220  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

that  a  great  deal  of  the  perspective  of  things  was 
lost.  Now,  somehow  or  other,  I  seem  to  have 
become  merged  in  the  whole  to  a  gratifying  ex- 
tent. I  have  been  disintegrated  in  order  to  be  in- 
tegrated— if  you  can  understand  me  ? 

As  ever, 

M. 
To.  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz. 

Paris,  July  20th,  1915. 

Dear  Violet, 

I  am  worrying  all  the  time  about  the  expensive- 
ness  of  the  furniture,  because  I  know  that  you 
will  contrast  it  with  the  Italian  rococo  rotundo 
risplendo  business,  and  you  will  find  that  your 
graceful  Louis  Seize  is  "higher  and  fewer." 
Well,  I  can't  help  it.  If  you  cut  off  diplomatic 
relations,  perhaps  you'll  cut  off  antiquity  relations 
too.    Chi  lo  saf 

I  saw  a  very  touching  thing  the  other  day  in 
the  Madeleine,  where  I  went  to  Mass.  A  woman 
no  longer  young,  in  the  heaviest  of  crape,  came  in 
and  sat  down  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 
She  shook  with  suppressed  sobs  and  terrible  weep- 
ing. Presently  there  came  in  another  worshipper, 
a  stranger  to  her,  and  sat  down  by  her  side.  He 
was  a  splendid-looking  officer  in  full-dress  uni- 
form— a  young  man,  with  a  wedding-ring  upon  his 
hand — one  of  those  permissionaires  home,  evi- 
dently, for  the  short  eight  days  that  all  the  offi- 
cers are  given  now — a  hiatus  between  the  old 
war  and  the  new.  He  bent  too,  praying;  but 
the  weeping  of  the  woman  at  his  side  evidently  tore 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         221 

his  heart.  Presently  she  lifted  her  face  and  wiped 
her  eyes,  and  the  officer  put  his  hand  on  hers. 
And  as  I  was  sitting  near,  I  heard  what  he  said: 

"Pauvre  madame,  pauvre  madamel  .  .  . 
Ma  mere  pleure  comme  vous." 

She  glanced  at  him,  then  bent  again  in  prayer. 
But  when  she  had  finished,  before  she  left  her 
seat,  I  heard  her  say  to  him: 

"Monsieur,  j'ai  beaucoup  prie  pour  vous. 
Sachez  que  vous  avez  les  prieres  d'une  vieille 
mere  a  laquelle  ne  reste  r'len  au  monde!* 

He  touched  her  hand  again  and  said: 

"Merci,  madame.    Adieu!'* 

It  was  an  intensely  touching  picture  in  the  dimly 
lighted  church,  full  of  worshippers,  one  can  never 
forget  these  things. 

I  went  yesterday  to  see  the  aerodrome  at  Le 
Bourget,  where  the  Nieuports  lay  along  the 
ground  like  wasps,  waiting  to  fly  and  sting.  I 
would  give  anything  in  the  world  to  be  a  soldier 
taking  part  in  the  trenches. 

Coal  is  now  a  dollar  a  sack,  and  in  the  shops, 
one  by  one,  everything  is  growing  rarer.  I  bought 
batiste  de  linon  one  day  at  three  francs  a  yard, 
and  the  following  day  it  was  ten^  and  only  a  few 
pieces  at  that  I     Safety  pins  can't  be  had. 

I  received  a  cable  last  night  from  Bessie,  say- 
ing that  they  sail  on  the  12th  August  by  the  Patria, 
and  asking  me  to  meet  her  in  Italy,  which  I  can 
make  no  plans  to  do,  as  Mother's  health  is  very 
wavering. 

With  the  idea  of  going  into  the  next  apart- 


222  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

ment — into  that  new  and  untried  place  that,  like 
the  girl  said  about  sickly  Italian  love  music,  "I 
hate  it,  and  I  love  it" — I  conceived  the  notion 
of  asking  my  old  landlord  to  let  me  take  with  me 
the  boutons  de  porte.  I  wanted  these  door 
handles,  that  have  been  turned  and  turned  for 
years  by  the  hands  of  those  I  love.  I  simply 
couldn't  bear  to  think  of  those  little  brass  knobs, 
that  I  have  kept  polished  by  the  greatest  effort 
in  memory  of  the  past,  should  fall  under  the 
vulgar  fingers  of  other  people,  who  would  not 
even  keep  them  clean.  Strange,  but  true,  the  pro- 
prietor has  consented. 

Of  course  the  kingdom  of  one's  mind  is  a  very 
great  possession,  but  even  in  it  one  can't  take  the 
full  amount  of  satisfaction  unless  one  feels  that 
all  its  capabilities  and  its  possibilities  are  devel- 
oped to  the  full.  And  even  in  these  pathways  of 
the  intellect  and  of  the  spirit,  it  is  possible  and 
easy  to  go  astray.  It  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  de- 
cide what  ways  are  best  or  most  complete. 

My  last  few  winters  in  America  have  developed 
in  me  the  strongest  Americanism,  and  the  active 
life  of  New  York — I  don't  mean  the  rushing  up 
and  down  Fifth  Avenue  in  a  motor,  or  lunching 
at  the  Colony  Club,  but  the  consciousness  of  that 
network  represented  to  me  by  Sixth  Avenue  and 
the  publishers'  offices,  that  getting  into  direct  touch 
with  the  mechanism  that  has  made  my  successes, 
that  coming  into  contact  with  active  business  life 
— is  fascinating  to  me,  and  indeed  has  been  for 
years  part,  as  you  know,  of  my  existence.  And 
then,  being  able,  in  a  few  moments,  to  come  in 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         223 

contact  with  the  people  who  are  dearest  and  most 
sympathetic  to  me  Is,  very  naturally,  a  great  thing 
in  my  life. 

I  close — not  because  I  haven't  anything  more 
to  say! 

Best  love, 

M. 


To  Mrs,  Morawetz  and  Miss  Andrews,  New 
York. 

4,  Place  du  Palais  Bourbon,  Paris. 

My  dear  Friends, 

I  don't  want  to  change  my  home  without  letting 
you  all  know  of  the  fact. 

Can  you  realise  that  you  will  none  of  you  ever 
see  again  little  old  4,  Place  du  Palais  Bourbon, 
with  its  memories,  sad  and  lovely.  Its  charm,  the 
pretty  little  study,  and  the  rest? 

To  Violet  it  has  a  very  real  entity,  and  I  hope 
some  sweetness  still.  I  never  shall  forget  the  day 
when  she  dragged  me  by  the  hair  of  my  head  up 
against  a  three  years'  lease  at  which  I  baulked 
and  almost  died.  I  never  thought  that  we  would 
be  able  to  pay  that  rent.  I  expected  to  be  sold 
up  at  the  Drouot  for  back  rent  and  taxes  I  I 
expected  every  horror  that  a  woman  making  her 
living  under  difficult  circumstances  could  fear. 
But  Violet's  optimism,  Violet's  courage — and, 
above  all,  Violet's  wish  to  make  a  home  with  me, 
to  build  this  little  high-swinging  nest  with  some 
one  she  loved — to  have  a  home  of  her  own — were 
stronger  than  my  fears;  and  together,  very  slowly 


224  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

and  unostentatiously,  we  made  what  has  been  such 
a  charming  entourage.  She  loved  it  with  all  her 
heart.  And  I  have  loved  It  even  more.  I  have 
learnt  priceless  and  wonderful  lessons  here;  Tve 
had  great  and  deep  experiences.  There  is  a  charm 
about  it,  and  a  beauty  that  nothing  else  can  ever 
give  to  me  in  the  way  of  a  home. 

Here  I  have  seen  France  rock  on  her  founda- 
tions. Here  I  have  watched  with  her,  wept  with 
her,  and  believed  in  her  victory. 

For  many  reasons  I  am  not  sorry  to  go. 

You  all  remember  No.  6,  upstairs.  We  have 
all  seen  it  together.  Now  it  is  free.  On  Monday 
• — always  a  lucky  day  for  me — I  sign  the  lease. 
I  shall  have  a  long,  Irregular  parlour,  on  the  walls 
of  which  is  a  lovely  old  red  brocade,  antique,  with 
pretty  red  taffeta  curtains;  and  on  the  floor  a 
wonderful  Savonnerie  Aubusson  carpet.  That's 
the  foundation  of  my  new  drawing-room.  Of 
course  it  will  be  easy  for  you  to  Imagine  that  I 
have  not  presented  myself  with  this  beauty;  and 
easy,  too,  to  imagine  that,  like  everything  else  that 
I  possess,  it  has  been  a  gift  of  love. 

The  long  room  at  the  back  is  going  to  be  a 
bedroom  with  a  bath;  and  there's  another  bed- 
room and  bath,  a  beautiful  ante-chamber,  a  big 
dining-room,  a  study  which  will  recall  the  old,  a 
lovely  bedroom  for  me  with  dressing-room  and 
bath,  a  kitchen  big  enough  to  prepare  the  fatted 
calf  in,  four  servants'  rooms,  an  elevator,  and  a 
bully  pair  of  concierges,  who,  I  hope,  will  stand 
guardian  to  me  for  a  new  and  successful  future. 

It  is  a  bold  step.    I  can  ask  my  married  friends 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         225 

to  visit  me ;  I  can  give  any  one  who  comes  a  room 
and  bath  and  a  room  for  their  maid;  so  there 
won't  be  any  excuse  now  for  turning  down  my  hos- 
pitality, and  those  who  are  fat  and  weak  in  the 
legs  won't  have  to  walk  upstairs. 

Out  of  the  windows  I  see  all  the  beauty  I  have 
loved  so  long;  but  I  am  above  it — still  higher — 
and  the  view  is  wider,  wonderful.  Far  over  to  the 
left  rises  the  lily-like  spectre  of  the  Sacre  Coeur. 
It  is  too,  too  beautiful  for  words. 

I  was  delighted  to  find  that  all  my  curtains  fit, 
and,  of  course,  I  have  more  than  enough  furniture 
to  begin  with.  The  place  will  be  repainted,  v/ith 
the  chauffage  and  the  bathrooms  in,  by  October, 
and  I  hope  I  shall  rent  my  old  place  by  then. 

Quite  apart  from  anything  else,  I  couldn't  stand 
the  stairs  any  more.  I  used  to  stay  out  because 
I  simply  couldn't  come  home  and  climb  them. 
And  when,  over  and  over  again,  Mme.  de  S.  came 
to  the  door  and  couldn't  come  up,  and  Mother 
came  to  the  door  and  couldn't  come  up,  and  when 
I,  when  I  did  come  up,  was  alone,  I  finally  broke 
the  spell.  Now  I  have  enlarged  my  horizon,  and 
I  can  open  hospitable  doors. 

When  I  came  over  here  this  time,  I  lay  in  my 
bed  on  these  wonderful  summer  mornings  and 
watched  the  little  shadows  of  the  Golden  People 
crossing  the  ceiling,  and  I  said:  "Now,  I  am 
going  to  sit  here  and  see  who  cares  enough  for  me 
to  come.  And  whoever  does,  and  whatever  golden 
person  crosses  my  life  now,  Is  going  to  come  in 
and  make  it,  and  I  shall  open  the  door."  I  stood 
at  the  window  of  the  study  and  looked  out  at 


226  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

the  lonely,  lonely  streets,  crossing  which  no  ve- 
hicle came  any  more  bringing  me  guests  whose 
sweet  presence  made  the  happiness  of  my  life; 
and  I  said:  *'The  day  will  dawn  surely  when 
some  one  will  break  through  this  lonely  barrier 
and  come." 

It  Is  only  two  months  ago — not  quite  that — 
and  when  I  first  got  here  the  restlessness  was 
terrible.  I  wanted  to  make  Mother  comfortable 
and  rush  back  to  New  York.  I  wanted  to  go  any- 
where, away  from  this  cruel  solitude,  where  the 
very  echoes  made  me  weep.  And  then — a  trans- 
formation occurred  In  me,  and  something  changed. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  have  been  content 
to  wait,  to  do  nothing,  to  wander  about  the 
little  house  In  a  sincere  peace,  to  arrange  my 
things  with  pleasure;  and  I  have  loved  It  as  never 
before. 

Don't  think  that  this  Is  illogical  and  paradoxi- 
cal, because  I  am  shedding  the  shell  like  a  chrys- 
alis. Remember  I  am  only  going  next  door.  The 
Place  du  Palais  Bourbon  is  mine  still — but  Pve 
gone  up  higher.  .  .  . 

With  deep  love  to  all  the  Golden  People, 

As  ever, 

M. 

To  Miss  Foote,  New  York. 

Paris,  Aug.  3rd,  191 5. 

My  dear  Mary, 

You  can't  think  how  glad  I  am  that  fate  has 
given  you  the  trip  across  the  continent,  and  the 
change  of  scene  and  rest  that  It  must  all  mean 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         227 

to  you.  Of  course  I  should  have  loved  to  have 
seen  you  here,  and  In  many  ways  the  experience 
would  have  been  wonderful  for  you.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  dare  say  that  America  offers,  in 
many  ways,  a  greater  stimulus  just  now. 

Here,  for  the  civilians,  things  are  calm.  Forain 
has  added  to  his  fame  and  made  himself  more 
Immortal  than  ever  by  his  wonderful  cartoon  at 
the  beginning  of  the  war:  A  poilu  (common  sol- 
dier), filthy,  ragged,  saying:  ^'Pourvu  que  les 
civiles  tiennentr*  It  has  become  an  epoch-making 
dessin. 

Artist  that  you  are,  you  would  have  revelled 
In  the  beauty  I  have  seen,  in  the  pictures  that  I 
have  seen.  True  artist  that  you  are — one  of  the 
truest  I  know — how  you  would  have  responded 
to  everything!  My  dear,  it  Is  for  this  reason, 
perhaps,  that  I  write  you  to-day — sure,  across 
these  thousands  and  thousands  of  miles,  of  your 
responsive  sympathy. 

One  after  another  of  these  semi-detached  mid- 
summer streets  I  have  rolled  over,  in  and  out  and 
through.  In  a  little  yellow-wheeled  victoria,  driven 
by  a  toothless  and  agreeable  old  coachman,  buy- 
ing on  all  sides  furniture  for  Violet,  for  two 
months  now.  The  work  has  been  so  absorbing, 
I  have  taken  It  so  seriously,  that  It  has  crowded 
out  my  own  work  entirely  and  made  me  a  semi- 
maniac.  Antique  furniture  buying  Is  a  vice,  there's 
no  doubt  about  It.  All  absorption  In  any  one  thing 
is  a  vice.  And  I  begin  now  to  understand  why 
collectors  die  poor  and  why  collections  are  sold. 
But  I  speak  of  this  In  order  to  speak  again  of 


228  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

the  wonderful,  wonderful  streets,  here  In  this  won- 
derful city.  How  well  you  know  them,  tool 
Mysterious,  vocal,  fascinating,  and  to-day  appeal- 
ing and  pathetic.  All  around  the  patient,  cleanly 
industry  continues.  Filth  and  dirt  you  almost 
never  see  anywhere.  Indeed,  here  and  there  are 
lines  of  starving  and  fatherless,  waiting  en  queue 
before  the  doors  of  the  different  civil  charities. 
The  children  seem  more  than  ever  beautiful :  bare- 
legged, with  little  white  shoes  and  stockings,  the 
little  girls  are  too  sweet  for  words ;  but  one's  eyes 
follow  now  more  tenderly  the  little  boys,  the  little 
sons  of  France,  coming  up  to  replace  those  who 
have  given  their  lives  as  flowers  are  given.  And 
it  seems  as  if  the  mothers  hold  them  more  closely, 
lead  them  more  needlessly  by  the  hand — these 
little  sons.  .  .  . 

Uniforms  everywhere,  of  course — sky-blue, 
pale  and  faded  by  the  trenches.  You  see  a  man 
with  three  decorations  across  his  breast — ^the 
Legion  of  Honour,  Military  Medal,  Croix  de 
Guerre — and  you  wonder  what  wonderful  bravery 
this  simple-faced,  quiet-eyed  man  has  been  In- 
spired to.  Three  stalwart  chaps  will  limp  along 
there,  down  by  the  Rue  Bonaparte  toward  the 
quais — three  men  with  only  three  legs  between 
them.  This  you  see  everywhere ;  and  the  bandages 
over  the  eyes  of  the  totally  blind.  .  .  . 

Let  me  give  you,  who  love  pictures,  these: 
Up  on  the  Rue  Tournon,  a  very  low  old  window, 
up  in  a  very  old  house— one  of  those  extremely 
compressed  entresol  windows  with  latticed  panes; 
the  window  half  open,  and  on  the  left,  in  an  earth- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         229 

en  jar,  masses  of  snowy  and  crimson  flox — noth- 
ing else.  Another:  Out  here,  back  of  my  house, 
is  a  little  maison  de  rapport.  One  June  twilight, 
I  saw  a  little  dressmaker  sitting  in  the  window, 
her  pure  profile  sharp  against  the  darkness  of 
the  room  behind  her,  dressed  in  a  little  camisole 
as  classic  as  though  it  had  belonged  to  Charlotte 
Corday.  Across  the  window-sill  a  soldier's  coat 
of  blue.  By  her  side,  in  a  common  pitcher,  was  a 
great  bunch  of  Madonna  lilies.  She  was  sitting 
dreaming — wondering,  no  doubt,  if  the  next  pass- 
ing of  the  postman  would  bring  her  one  of  those 
stampless  cards  from  the  trenches.  .  .  . 

The  pictures  are  many:  they  are  countless.  I 
could  not  begin,  my  dear  Mary,  to  tell  you  half 
of  them;  but  I  wish  indeed  that  you  were  here  to 
see.  When  one  has  time  to  think  of  it,  the  con- 
stant effort  all  about,  and  on  every  side,  the  vivid- 
ness and  liveness  of  that  living  and  vibrant  cordon 
humain  which  has  stretched  nearly  six  hundred 
miles,  is  electrifying  beyond  words.  How  real 
it  makes  real  things  seem  I  How  glorious  it  makes 
real  love  seem!  For  nothing  could  hold  against 
the  force  of  that  steel  machine  and  against  the 
irony  and  the  iron  of  forty  years  of  plan  and  plot, 
and  an  intent  and  design  to  possess  and  to  kill, 
but  Love  .  .  .  the  love  of  wife  and  child,  and 
lover  and  home,  the  love  of  country.  The  hands 
that  are  pressed  against  the  invader  now  are  the 
hands  of  those  who  for  nearly  half  a  century 
have  been  making  for  peace.  Therefore,  they  are 
not  mailed.  They  are  flesh  and  blood.  They  are 
the  fine  and  delicate  hands  of  the  poets,  the  ar- 


230  WAR  LETTERS  OP 

tists,  the  men  of  thought  and  of  spirit,  the  hands 
of  the  industrials,  of  those  who  have  been  mak- 
ing fine  and  beautiful  things,  whilst  the  Germans 
were  making  shot  and  shell.  These  hands  seem 
to  be  a  very  hedge  of  defence,  mutely  calling  upon 
God  to  bless  them.  So,  with  me,  see  them  pressed 
against  the  invader  to  force  him  out  of  the  de- 
vastated lands.  Is  it  strange,  as  we  look,  that 
they  almost  seem  to  us  to  bear  the  glorified  stig- 
mata? .  .  .  So,  as  I  think  of  the  power  of  love, 
it  seems  more  than  ever  greater  than  anything  else 
in  the  world;  and  in  this  way  you  may  look  upon 
this  as  a  spiritual  war,  in  the  face  of  which  peace 
is  ignoble,  and  only  effort  is  divine.  ...  I  do 
not  think  that  any  love,  however  unfulfilled,  is  in 
vain.  I  cannot  beheve  it  any  longer  at  the  close 
of  this  strange,  terrible  and  beautiful  year.  My 
heart  has  gone  out  so  constantly  to  those  robbed 
of  their  beloved  by  death.  They  are  all  around 
me,  everywhere — known  and  unknown.  And  my 
heart,  too,  goes  out  so  deeply  to  those  who,  as  it 
is  called,  love  in  vain,  though  there  is  no  such 
thing.  To  be  able  to  love  at  all  is  so  marvellous 
that  no  matter  what  suffering  it  brings,  life  is  only 
worth  living  through  that  agony,  through  that 
passion,  through  that  poignant,  ever-demanding 
pain.  Pity  those  who  cannot  love,  not  those  who 
do,  no  matter  whether  they  lose  or  gain. 

I  am  sure — I  know — that  you  understand  me 
as  perhaps  no  one  else  can. 

Everything  has  dignity  through  this — every- 
thing has  a  raison  d'etre  through  this.  Only  by 
this  is  anything  ever  created  and  made.    I  under- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         231 

stand  so  well  that  great,  far-reaching  demand  and 
cry  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  need,  for  the  re- 
sponse and  for  the  answer;  but  even  in  the  face  of 
complete  renunciation,  in  the  face  of  inevitable 
loss,  in  the  face  of  what  we  all  call  failure  and  re- 
nunciation, I  say  again:  Love  completely  and  call 
yourself  only  happy  when  you  can. 

Write  me  a  line  and  think  of  me,  as  I  know  you 
always  do. 

As  ever. 
Devotedly, 

M. 

To  F.  B,  Van  Vorst,  Esq. 

Paris,  August  4th,  191 5. 

My  dear  Frederick, 

I  have  not  quite  understood  about  the  war  sou- 
venirs. I  have  ordered  to  be  bought  for  you  all 
the  notices  publicly  posted  in  the  streets  since 
the  day  of  mobihsation,  and  have  already  received 
thirteen,  costing  ten  francs  apiece.  It  will  be 
quite  a  pacquet  of  documents,  if  I  can  get  them  all. 
Some  of  the  souvenirs  are  very  interesting  ones, 
and  I  am  going  to  send  them  by  the  Arrierican  Ex- 
press. I  hope  to  be  able  to  get  you  a  copy  of  the 
Mobilisation  Order,  but  they  are  hard  to  get,  and 
very  scarce.  I  heard  that  Von  Schoen,  the  ex- 
German  Ambassador  here,  got  one  through  some 
one  at  the  American  Embassy,  and  had  to  pay 
frs.6000  for  it!  Another  man  paid  frs.1500,  but 
there  is  just  a  chance  that  I  may  be  able  to  get  one 
for  about  sixty  francs — under  a  hundred,  any- 
way. 


232  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Your  mother  is  remarkably  well  and  walked 
from  her  house  nearly  here  the  other  day. 

Things  aren't  half  as  bad  as  they  seem  to  you 
in  America,  because  you  gtt  the  German  *'news." 
The  stories  of  bravery  and  devotion  are  legion. 
One  fine  little  woman  who  had  married  a  hair- 
dresser and  was  only  used  to  homely,  feminine 
duties,  took  on  his  shop  when  he  went  to  the  front, 
and  learned  the  business,  so  that  now  she  is  a 
capable  little  shopkeeper  and  hairdresser,  and  said 
in  speaking  of  her  husband  on  the  firing  line: 
"Oh,  I've  long  given  up  wondering  how  he  will 
come  home — whether  whole  or  maimed.  Now  I 
only  say.  When  he  comes  back,  if  he  comes  back. 
It  doesn't  matter  how.  I  can  work  for  him  and 
take  care  of  him.  All  I  ask  is  that  he  may  re- 
turn." This  is  the  magnificent  spirit  of  all  the 
French  women. 

With  much  love, 

Your  devoted  sister, 

M. 

To  Mrs,  JVilliam  K.  Vanderhilt,  Newport, 

4,  Place  du  Palais  Bourbon, 

Paris,  Aug.  19 15. 

Dear  Anne,. 

It  is  a  long  time  since  I  had  your  letter.  I 
think  of  you  very  often,  although  I  have  been 
silent.  Your  presence  is  everywhere  in  the  place 
where  only  last  year  I  grew  to  know  you  for  the 
first  time. 

You  can't  think  how  impressive  it  is  to  be  in 
a  city  that  is  almost  deserted.     When  I  tell  you 


MRS.  WILLIAM  K.  VANDERBILT 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         233 

that  one  day  I  drove  from  the  Trocadero  to  the 
Pont  Alexandre,  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  without 
meeting  a  single  vehicle,  it  wllljgive  you  an  idea  of 
the  desolateness  of  these  streets.  And  the  crowd, 
too,  is  such  a  peculiar  one — all  the  men  old  or 
frail-looking.  One  wonders  where  the  singular 
Inhabitants  who  have  suddenly  appeared  upon 
the  scene  keep  themselves  In  normal  times. 

Wandering  about  alone,  as  I  have  been  doing 
a  great  deal  lately,  I  have  gone  Into  many  of  the 
churches  and  prayed  at  the  different  shrines,  and 
it  Is  impressive  to  see  the  character  of  those  who 
come  In  to  pray.  Men  who  can  never  kneel  again ; 
men  who  sit  with  bandaged  eyes  before  the  lighted 
altars,  for  whom  all  the  visions  of  the  world  have 
been  blotted  out  for  ever;  the  poor  women  in  their 
little  shawls;  women  In  their  crape  veils;  the  man 
going  to  the  Front;  the  man  who  has  come  back 
from  it,  never  to  take  an  active  part  In  life  again; 
and  the  women  who  ask  the  Mother  of  Sorrows 
to  remember  theirs.  This  morning  I  went  to  St. 
Etienne  du  Mont  just  before  noon.  Around  the 
tomb  of  Saint  Genevieve  were  burning  several 
very  high  candles.  The  woman  told  me  they 
would  burn  for  four  days,  and  I  lit  one  In  mem- 
ory of  the  patron  saint  of  Paris  and  left  It  stand- 
ing high  and  white,  spiritual  and  beautiful,  in  the 
corner  of  the  dark  old  church. 

The  sacredness  of  Paris  now  blends  with  Its 
beauty,  and  the  city  Itself  seems  to  keep — In  ab- 
sence of  millions  of  feet  who  used  to  tread  its 
streets,  in  absence  of  the  heavy,  noisy  vehicles 
that  are   doing  their  duty  as  transports,  In  ab- 


234  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

sence  of  all  the  tourist  and  stranger  throngs  that 
never  were  of  it — Paris  seems  to  have  gone  back 
into  the  dim  past,  expressed  by  these  relics  that 
remain :  the  churches,  the  Louvre,  the  Tour  Saint- 
Jacques,  the  tumble-down  streets;  and  the  whole 
atmosphere  of  the  place,  as  I  have  seen  it  this 
summer,  has  been  one  of  the  most  sympathetic 
and  charming  things  that  you  could  possibly  im- 
agine. 

My  mother  was  eighty-one  years  of  age  yes- 
terday. She  celebrated  it  by  walking  up  the  three 
flights  of  stairs  to  my  apartment,  to  see  one  or 
two  of  the  lovely  bits  of  furniture  that  I  have 
been  buying.  Last  year  she  was  a  refugee  in 
England;  this  year  she  is  revelling  in  her  little 
home,  spared  to  her  because  of  England's  help. 

A  very  agreeable  Abbe  dined  with  me  last 
night.  He  told  me  that  he  was  giving  absolution 
to  one  dying  German  boy — only  sixteen — on  the 
field,  and  he  put  his  hand  under  the  boy's  head 
and  lifted  it,  and  the  boy,  who  was  delirious,  sim- 
ply said:  *'Mama,  mama,  mama!"  And  the 
Abbe  said  to  me:  "It  is  a  very  curious  thing, 
but  in  all  the  dying  appeals  I  have  ever  heard, 
it  is  always  for  the  mother.^'  That  return,  per- 
haps, to  the  lost  childhood — the  call  Just  before 
going  to  sleep.   .  .  . 

You  speak  to  me  about  your  summer  being  an 
unsatisfactory  one.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
it  can't  be  that,  knowing  you.  Wherever  you 
are,  you  have  done  good  and  splendid  things, 
vivifying  and  inspiring  and  encouraging  those  near 
you.    I  scarcely  know  of  any  presence  more  stimu- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         235 

latlng,  more  impelling  to  action,  and  I  envy  those 
who  have  had  the  pleasure  of  your  sweet  com- 
panionship. 

To-night  is  one  of  the  nights  of  full  harvest 
moon.  The  skies  have  been  so  marvellous  lately, 
thickly  sown  with  summer  stars,  and  it  is  an  im- 
possible thing  to  those  who  have  not  seen  those 
dreadful  and  distant  fields  to  imagine  the  horror 
that  is  going  on  so  near  these  cities  which  that 
constant,  magnificent  courage,  that  limitless  sacri- 
fice, protect. 

One  day  when  I  was  giving  electricity  lately 
at  the  Ambulance,  a  poor  Httle  Zouave  hobbled 
in — he  had  only  one  leg  left — and  held  up  a 
maimed  hand  for  me  to  treat.  He  was  not  a 
very  interesting-looking  specimen — rather  sullen 
and  discouraged,  I  thought — but  as  I  looked  at  his 
frail  little  body  and  his  disfigured  hand,  I  looked 
at  his  breast  too.  Three  medals  were  on  it — the 
Legion  of  Honour,  the  Croix  de  Guerre,  and  the 
Medaille  Mihtaire — all  a  man  can  get!  And  he 
was  just  a  Httle  soldier  of  Africa — a  nondescript 
man  whose  name  would  only  be  heard  at  other 
times  to  be  forgotten. 

Jacquemin. 

"Qu'est-ce  que  vous  avez  fait  pour  meriter 
tout  cela,  mon  ami?" 

Pour  meriter  tout  cela,  parbleu!  He  has  one 
leg  only,  one  hand  only,  and  he  has  back  of  him 
eight  months  of  hospital  and  eight  months  of 
horror,  for  his  sufferings  have  been  beyond  words. 

Jacquemin ! 


236  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Oh,  his  name  is  pretty  well  known  now  in  a 
certain  Sector  I 

"Qu'est-ce  que  vous  avez  fait  pour  meriter  tout 
cela?" 

Three  medals  across  that  narrow  chest  I 

Well,  alone,  on  a  bad  night,  in  storm  and  rain, 
he  was  a  volunteer  patrol.  Alone,  he  brought  in 
four  German  prisoners.  He  was  a  volunteer  for 
six  patrouilles  of  the  gravest  danger — not  always 
alone,  but  always  fetching  in  prisoners  and  more 
prisoners.  Bad  for  the  Germans.  He  carried 
his  superior  officer,  wounded,  out  under  fire  and 
saved  his  life.  Then  there  was  a  line  of  trenches 
where  a  hundred  and  fifty-six  men — they  know 
his  name :  Jacquemin !  Jacquemin  with  the  little 
mongrel  dog  always  at  his  heels — a  hundred  and 
fifty-six  men  had  eaten  nothing  for  four  days  but 
the  sodden  bread  left  in  their  haversacks.  Jacque- 
min filled  several  waggons  full  of  bread  and  seat- 
ing himself  on  the  driver's  seat  of  the  first,  he 
drove  in  that  life-giving  line  under  the  fire  of  shot 
and  shell,  right  into  the  very  jaws  of  death.  He 
brought  suflicient  supplies  to  save  the  line  of 
trenches,  for  otherwise  they  would  have  had  to 
evacuate  them  through  starvation,  as  indeed  was 
the  case  with  others  where  this  gay  little  Zouave 
could  not  reach.  Just  the  giving  of  food  to  the 
faint  and  hungry  men  whose  stern  faces  were  set 
against  death.  That  act  brought  him  one  of  those 
medals  across  his  breast — I  forget  which.  Fi- 
nally, the  shot  and  shell  which  he  had  braved  so 
many  times  was  bound  to  get  him,  and  with  his 
leg  and  arm  almost  shot  away  he  lay  for  dead 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         237 

amongst  the  other  slain,  and  they  buried  him. 
They  buried  Jacquemin.  Fortunately  or  unfor- 
tunately— it  depends  upon  how  he  regards  a  life 
which  he  will  live  through  henceforth  with  only 
one  leg  and  only  one  arm — a  little  bit  of  his  sol- 
dier's coat  sprouted  out  of  the  ground.  (They 
don't  always  bury  deep  on  those  fields.)  And  his 
dog  saw  it  and  smelled  and  dug  and  dug,  and 
whined  and  cried,  until  they  came  and  unburied 
Jacquemin  and  brought  him  back. 

He  is  sitting  up  there  at  the  Ambulance  now, 
and  his  little  dog  is  sometimes  in  the  kitchen  and 
sometimes  comes  up  to  the  wards. 

Jacquemin  I 

"Qu'est-ce  que  vous  avez  fait  pour  meriter  tout 
cela,  mon  ami?" 

What  countless  thousands  of  them  have  done, 
all  along  those  lines — Englishmen  and  Frenchmen, 
Scotchmen  and  Irishmen,  Indians,  Australians, 
Canadians — hearts  and  souls  and  bodies  offered 
up  magnificently  and  valiantly  sacrificed  for  the 
greatest  Cause  for  which  humanity  has  ever 
fought!  Jacquemin  brought  them  bread  to  the 
fighting  line;  and  that  great  fighting  line,  by  its 
effort,  is  giving  bread  for  ever  to  the  world.  .  .  . 

You  may,  my  dear,  know  this  poor  chap,  Jac- 
quemin, well.  Perhaps  he  was  in  your  own  ward. 
Indeed,  my  dear  Anne,  I  should  not  be  surprised 
if  you  had  stood  beside  him  through  some  of  his 
dreadful  dressings.  But  then  again,  he  may  have 
been  one  of  the  many  who  came  in  just  after  you 
left. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  long,  long  to  be  in 


238  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

America  now;  nor  can  I  believe  for  a  moment 
that  my  people  do  not  voice  the  sentiments  and 
the  hopes  and  the  patriotism  of  the  Allies.  It 
could  not  be  otherwise.   .  .  . 

The  other  day  I  wrote  my  first  article  in  French, 
and  the  Echo  de  Paris  has  accepted  it  and  asked 
me  for  more.  Of  course  you  can't  imagine  how 
surprised  I  am,  and  how  perfectly  delighted  to 
find  that  I  could  dictate  in  French  an  article  that 
a  first-class  journal  would  accept  without  correc- 
tions !  Monsieur  Jules  Simon  told  me  so  himself. 
I  will  send  it  to  you. 

My  dear,  let  me  congratulate  you  with  all  my 
heart  on  the  recognition  of  your  work  by  the 
French  Government.  I  am  so  glad.  How  deeply 
and  entirely  you  deserve  it  I 

As  ever, 
M.  V. 


To  Mme.  Hugues  he  Roux,  ToMo^  Japan. 

Paris,  Aug.  1915. 

Dear  Bessie, 

All  day  to-day  I  have  been  anxious,  thinki^ig 
of  you  on  the  Touraine  crossing  to  Bordeaux.  The 
news  of  the  Arabic  and  its  sinking,  with  the  loss  of 
life,  was  not  reassuring  to  any  one  whose  dear 
ones  were  putting  out  to  sea.  I  could  not  bear 
to  think  what  this  week  of  anxiety  would  be. 

Yesterday  I  went  down  to  the  Matin  and  saw 
Robert's  secretary.  Mr.  Dumont  told  me  that 
there  was  a  question  of  your  going  to  the  Far 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         239 

East — ^Japan,  Pctrograd,  and  so  forth.  You  can 
imagine  with  what  mingled  feelings  I  heard  this 
news. 

I  have  always  thought  that  perhaps  you  were 
the  one  person  in  the  world  whom  I  unselfishly 
love  (except  my  mother) ,  because  in  what  is  good 
for  you  I  can  forget  myself.  You  can  imagine 
how  keen  this  loneliness  is  here.  Nobody  knows 
better  than  you  what  Paris  is  when  one  is  utterly 
alone.  My  absorption  in  buying  Violet's  furniture 
is  at  an  end,  for  I  have  almost  completed  her  pur- 
chases and  the  second  invoice  went  to-day.  Mme. 
de  S.  is  at  the  seaside,  and  there  is  not  one  human 
creature  in  the  place  with  whom  I  can  exchange 
a  word.     Nor  will  there  be  until  you  return. 

No  words  can  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that  you 
are  going  to  have  this  marvellous  and  beautiful 
experience.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  must  be  the 
greatest  thing  in  the  world  to  go  off  into  those 
wonderful  countries  with  the  person  you  love  best 
for  interesting  work.    What  could  be  more  ideal? 

I  look  back  and  think  now,  my  dear,  of  all 
those  cruelly  hard  years  of  yours  spent  here  in 
anxiety  and  toil  and  loneliness,  and  in  many  in- 
stances overshadowed  by  such  dreadful  griefs; 
and  in  contrast  now  your  happy  marriage  and  the 
opening  up  to  you  of  far  horizons  and  the  com- 
panionship always  near  you  of  the  one  you  love 
the  best.  Both  mother  and  Hilda  feared  very 
much,  I  think,  for  my  disappointment  when  this 
news  should  come  of  your  prolonged  absence  and 
the  great  distance  between  us ;  but  I  want  you  to 
believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  have  not  had  one- 


240  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

selfish  thought  about  It — I  might  say,  no  regret. 
Everything  is  sad  here,  intensely  sad.  I  could 
not  wish  for  you  to  return  to  these  scenes  just 
now. 

I  am  sorry,  darling,  that  you  will  not  see  ever 
again  this  little  home — probably.  But  after  all, 
nothing  makes  much  difference  in  these  moments 
of  change.  When  you  come  back,  if  I  am  here 
at  all,  I  will  be  installed  at  No.  6.  I  have  told 
you  nothing  of  what  I  have  been  doing  lately, 
but  in  buying  all  this  enormous  lot  of  things  for 
Violet,  Fve  come  across  one  or  two  very  beauti- 
ful objects,  and  I  have  bought  two  perfectly  won- 
derful Louis  XV.  lacquer  desks,  worth  from  five 
to  ten  thousand  dollars  apiece.  They  are 
like  jewels.  One  is  Vernet  Martin  black,  with 
golden  figures  and  turquoise  blue  inside.  To- 
night, my  dear,  it  stands  in  the  little  salon,  in  the 
place  of  the  old  Dutch  bureau  we  know  so  well; 
and  over  it  hangs  an  exquisite  little  group  by  a 
pupil  of  Boucher.  And  in  the  doorway  near  the 
dining-room  is  a  red  lacquer  bureau,  with  a  pinkish 
marble  top — the  most  beautiful  piece  of  furniture 
I  ever  saw.  It  is  a  perfect  gem.  Some  of  the 
little  things  I  have  seen  in  this  moment  of  disin- 
tegration I  have  bought  for  very  little  and  shall 
keep,  I  hope;  so  you  will  see  them  in  the  new 
home. 

Dearest  Bessie,  take  care  of  yourself  In  every 
way — about  disease  and  danger.  I  shall  pray  for 
you  devoutly. 

I  have  just  spent  a  sweet  five  days  with  Mme. 
de  S.  at  Cabourg.    There  she  was,  in  a  tiny  little 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         241 

house,  all  alone  with  her  grief,  her  memories,  and 
looking  into  a  future  devoid  of  interest.  It  was 
perfectly  lovely  to  be  with  her,  sad  though  she 
was.  I  loved  every  hour  of  my  little  stay.  It  was 
five  hours  in  the  train  each  way,  but  I  was  glad 
to  go.  She  was  like  a  sister  and  a  mother  and  a 
friend  all  in  one.  No  one  in  the  world  is  like 
her  to  me,  and  I  just  adore  her,  there  is  no  other 
word.  Two  or  three  times,  quite  alone,  I  went 
down  to  the  sea.  Never  did  it  seem  more  mar- 
vellous to  me  or  more  inspiring.  All  the  Nor- 
mandy of  the  years  gone  by  that  together  you  and 
I  knew  and  loved  came  back  again  with  its  tender 
memories  and  met  me  in  those  harvested  fields 
and  on  that  wide,  smooth  sea  floor.  I  looked 
across  the  water  that  stretched  to  where  you  were 
and  thought  how  soon  you  would  cross  it  to  me. 
I  did  not  dream  that  it  would  be  so  long.  .  .  .  Oh, 
my  dear !  memory  after  memory  came  to  me,  until 
sometimes  it  seemed  that  I  could  not  bear  to  wel- 
come any  more.  I  saw  again,  Bessie,  the  little 
diligence  climbing  the  Falaise  side  from  toward 
Havre,  and  you  and  me  on  it  going  down  to  wel- 
come Mother  and  John — do  you  know  how  many 
years  ago?  (I  will  not  mark  the  years.  As  I 
stood  there,  down  by  the  sea,  there  was  no  trace 
of  time  on  that  hmitless  expanse.)  So  many  part- 
ings since  then  for  you  and  me — so  many,  many 
tears,  long  years  of  struggle,  days  of  hope,  and 
days  of  despair.  There  have  been  safe  ports 
and  harbours,  and  you,  I  feel,  with  Robert,  have 
sailed  safely  into  yours.  You  see,  I  do  not  speak 
of  myself — I  can't. 


242  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

You  must  feel,  I  think,  my  dear,  as  you  read 
this,  that  these  last  few  months — I  will  not  say 
years — have  made  some  change  (I  hope  for  the 
good)  in  me.  Certainly  I  don't  complain  and  be- 
moan my  lonely  fate  as  I  used.  '  Sometimes  I 
wonder  if  my  unusual  tranquillity  is  a  kind  of 
despair,  or  a  renunciation — if  it  presages  some 
disaster,  or  if  it  is  only  the  threshold  of  age.  You 
see,  I  dare  not  hope  that  it  may  be  the  threshold 
of  joy.  Oh,  I  assure  you  that,  standing  there  that 
early  morning  as  I  did,  never,  never  have  I  felt  so 
near  to  the  truly  spiritual  things  of  life.  By  this 
I  don't  mean  religious  things,  but  the  things  of 
soul. 

All  around  me  were  the  tiny  red  and  white 
tents — here  and  there  a  bright  yellow  one — the 
little  pleasure  houses  of  the  few  who  this  year 
have  gone  down  for  the  summer  to  the  sea.  And 
everywhere  were  the  sweet,  charming  little  chil- 
dren playing,  bare-legged,  on  the  sand.  I  watched 
them  build  their  miniature  forts — little  French- 
men playing  at  war.  I  watched  them  with  their 
pretty  games,  and  I  tried  to  see  myself  sitting 
there  with  a  book,  watching  a  child.  I  tried,  com- 
panionless  as  I  am,  to  see  myself  standing  there 
with  a  companion  by  my  side.  .  .  . 

Normandy  has  been  a  rich  field  for  the  poets, 
as  you  know,  and  for  the  thinkers  and  idealists 
from  England  and  from  France.  It  is  a  very 
country  of  dreams  and  song.  No  one  knows  this 
better  than  you  and  your  husband,  who  is  a  Nor- 
man born  and  who  loves  every  inch  of  it.  I  think 
of  that  wonderful  collection  of  verse  that  I  have 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         243 

loved  so  much  for  years — you  know  it  well.  Its 
meaning  was  made  clear  to  me  by  John.  I  can  see 
him  now,  there  on  the  Norman  beach — tall,  dis- 
tinguished, with  the  little  red  book  in  his  hand, 
"The  Midsummer  HoHday."  And  on  that  morn- 
ing, as  I  stood  alone  on  the  beach  after  all  these 
long,  long  years,  I  knew  for  the  first  time  why  I 
had  loved  that  verse  of  Swinburne^s  so:  and 
I  knew  for  the  first  time  what  it  meant. 


"The  sea  is  at  ebb  and  the  sound  of  its  utmost  word 
Is  soft  as  a  least-wave's  laps  in  a  still  small  reach; 

From  seaward  ever  to  seaward,  in  search  of  a  goal  deferred, 
From  leeward  ever  to  leeward,  reach  on  reach. 
Till  earth  gives  ear  to  the  lesson  that  all  days  teach — 

With  changes  of  gladness  and  sadness  that  cheer  and  chide. 

The  long  way  lures  me  along  by  a  chance  untried, 
That  haply,  if  Hope  deceive  not  and  Faith  be  whole. 

Not  all  for  nought  do  we  seek,  with  a  dream  for  a  guide, 
The  Goal  that  is  not,  and  ever  again  the  Goal." 


The  last  time  I  was  in  Normandy  was  when 
I  was  taking  back  to  England,  via  Dieppe,  "Aman- 
da of  the  Mill"  to  sell  in  London.  That  winter, 
if  you  remember,  I  had  been  very  ill  in  Arragon, 
Georgia;  and  whilst  lying  down  there — alone,  in 
a  cotton  mill  town,  without  any  nurse  or  any  doc- 
tor— in  a  moment  half  of  delirium  and  half  of 
consciousness,  I  made  a  solemn  vow.  On  one 
night  of  fever  in  that  wretched  little  shanty,  I 
prayed  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  I  said  that  if 
she  would  heal  me  and  restore  me  to  health,  so 
that  I  might  write  "Amanda  of  the  Mill,"  I  would 
be  a  Roman  Catholic.  Of  course  I  never  kept  that 
vow:  but  that  summer,  in  Dieppe,  with  my  book 


244  '  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

finished,  I  remember  going  into  the  old  cathedral 
there  and  burning  a  candle  and,  thinking  of  my 
vow,  buying  a  rosary  and  prayer-book,  learning 
the  Ave  Maria  and  trying  to  pray;  and,  recalci- 
trant and  unwilling,  unconvinced  and  unbelieving, 
I  could  not  and  did  not  fulfil  my  promise.  I  never 
have  ...  I  thought  of  all  this  as,  with  Cousin 
Lottie,  I  went  into  the  old  cathedral  at  Caen  and 
we  prayed  together  before  the  Virgin's  shrine  for 
the  souls  of  her  beloved  dead.  Indeed,  as  I  went 
into  that  church,  I  knelt  with  her  unconsciously 
before  a  cluster  of  lights:  I  did  not  know  where 
I  was  kneeling,  but  when  I  looked  up,  I  found  to 
the  right  of  me  a  beautiful  statue  of  the  Madonna. 
It  seemed  very  strange.  I  only  mention  all  this 
as  I  seemed  so  singularly  led  back  here,  after 
many  years,  to  the  old  footsteps,  my  weary  feet 
unconsciously  falling  just  where  they  had  fallen 
before.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  perfectly  lovely  Madame 
Angenard  has  been  to  me.  If  you  love  me,  you'll 
be  glad  and  touched  at  her  friendliness,  her  sister- 
liness,  and  her  real  goodness  to  me.  I  have  in 
her  an  honest  and  true  friend.  I  always  have 
had.  To-day  she  lunched  here  with  me,  with  little 
Nicole.  As  you  know  by  now,  she  has  given  me, 
to  inhabit  as  much  as  I  like,  a  beautiful  little  house 
on  her  estate.  The  Saturday  before  I  went  to 
Mme.  de  S.'s,  the  eve  of  the  fifteenth  of  August — 
the  Feast  of  Mary — I  spent  at  her  chateau.  As 
I  wrote,  two  hundred  soldiers  are  quartered  in  her 
grounds,  sleeping  on  straw  in  the  old  farm  build- 
ings and  commanded  by  Mme.  de  S.'s  cousin,  the 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         245 

Comte  de  Puy.  We  had  just  seated  ourselves  af 
dinner  when  outside  the  chateau  gathered  a  little 
group  of  the  soldiers  with  their  musical  instru- 
ments, and  they  played  for  her  their  best  selec- 
tions in  honour  of  her  fete,  for  she  is  called,  as 
you  know,  Marie.  We  both  stood  there  in  the 
window,  whilst  the  men,  in  their  light  blue  uni- 
forms, played  their  martial  tunes.  In  the  distance 
was  the  fountain,  splashing  and  dashing  Its  waters. 
A  little  further  on,  the  clock  on  the  old  church 
rang  the  hour;  and  far,  far  away,  muffled  but  au- 
dible, was  the  sound  of  the  guns  at  Soissons.  You 
can't  think  how  impressive  it  was — and  how  sad. 
Mme.  Angenard  went  down  the  steps  to  thank  the 
soldiers.  She  was  all  in  white,  and  over  her  dress 
a  dark-blue  Chinese  embroidered  coat,  and  her 
little  girl  came  down  and  stood  by  her  side,  and 
the  leader  of  the  band  brought  a  great  bunch  of 
country  flowers,  gathered  and  arranged  by  sol- 
diers, and  presented  them  to  the  chatelaine  for  her 
fete.  Later  in  the  evening,  the  Comte  de  Puy  and 
Madame  Angenard  and  myself  stood  in  the  star- 
light by  the  fountain,  and  we  talked  of  the 
war.  .  .  . 

Next  week  I  am  taking  Hilda  and  Webb  and 
going  to  Salsomagglore  to  rest  and  finish  "Car- 
mlchePs  Past."  From  far  Japan,  wish  me  luck 
and  good  fortune  as,  my  dearest,  darling  Bessie, 
I  wish  you  Godspeed  and  safe  home. 

Devotedly, 

M. 


246  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York, 

August  4th,  191 5. 

Dearest  Belle, 

It  seems  a  long  time  indeed  since  I've  given 
myself  the  luxury  of  a  real  letter  to  you.  During 
the  last  two  weeks  I  have  had  an  Italian  guest, 
to  whom  Paris  and  France  were  new,  and  it  was 
a  mutual  interest  to  see  what  one  can  see  of  Paris 
now  together; — especially  to  do  things  with  a 
deeply  appreciative  and  keenly  sensitive  compan- 
ion. Nothing  of  beauty  or  charm  escaped  him, 
from  the  smallest  detail. 

A  perfectly  killing  thing  happened  one  day. 
We  were  driving  in  the  victoria,  out  on  an  antique 
furniture  hunt,  when  way  down  the  boulevard  a 
Paris  gamin  sprang  on  the  step  of  the  carriage 
and  hurled  something  into  it.  I've  never  been  so 
startled  in  my  life  as  I  was  by  this  rush  into  our 
tranquil  moment.  I  didn't  know  whether  it  was 
the  head  of  a  German  or  a  dead  rat.  Gaetano 
peacefully  and  calmly  leaned  over  and  lifted  up 
a  black  kitten  which,  before  I  knew  it,  he  had  as 
calmly  planted  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  on  the 
other  side.  I  am  glad  to  say  it  rushed  off  before 
the  tram  came,  and  Gaetano  assured  me  that  it 
brought  the  best  of  luck. 

Then  I  must  also  note  that  one  night,  walking 
down  the  sightless,  gloomy,  shadowy  Champa 
Elysees  together  from  Mme.  de  S.'s,  at  eleven 
o'clock,  we  were  shadowed  by  an  apache.  Al- 
though many  nights  I  have  wandered  around  here 
entirely  alone,  I  was  scared  to  death,  and  I  seized 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         247 

Gaetano  by  the  arm  and  said:  *'Let's  run!" 
He  stopped  quite  still  and  looked  at  me  with  great 
reproach,  and  said:  "Why,  you  seem  to  forget 
you're  with  a  man!  Why  would  you  run?"  I 
don't  know  whether  the  timidity  on  my  part  had 
charm  for  him  or  not;  but  at  any  rate,  as  I  looked 
at  him,  so  big  and  strong,  muscular  and  vigorous, 
and  at  his  great  big  cane,  and  into  his  quiet,  de- 
termined face,  I  didn't  feel  afraid  any  more. 

I  never  have  seen  anything  so  beautiful  in  my 
life  as  Paris  has  been  on  these  divine  nights,  as 
we  have  driven  around  it  in  open  carriages  and  in 
motors.  It  is  almost  completely  dark  now,  with 
the  great  masses  of  Notre  Dame,  the  Louvre,  the 
Conciergerie,  and  the  spanning  shadows  of  the 
bridges  dark  and  blurring  softly  against  the  moon- 
light of  the  summer  nights,  or  darker  shadows 
on  the  overcast  evenings;  with  here  and  there 
just  a  light  or  two  from  a  window  or  a  low  muted 
lamp.  Paris  of  the  old,  old  days — so  easy  to 
reconstruct  and  to  imagine! 

On  Sunday  morning  I  went  out  to  St.  Germain, 
where  Mme.  Marie  met  me  with  her  motor  and 
took  me  out  to  the  lovely  chateau  that  she  has 
bought  in  Seine-et-Oise.  It  is  a  Francois  Premier 
property,  surrounded  by  great  moats  all  grown  in 
with  ivy  and  grass.  Her  chateau  itself  is  modern, 
but  her  gardens  and  fields  are  too  lovely  for 
words.  She  has  four  hundred  soldiers  quartered 
in  the  farms,  and  at  luncheon  what  was  my  sur- 
prise to  find  that  the  Commandant  was  no  other 
than  the  Comte  de  Puy,  Cousin  Lottie's  dearest 
cousin — a  man  I  know  very  well !    We  had  a  most 


248  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

agreeable  time,  and,  of  course,  he  told  us  won- 
derful things  of  the  campaign.  He  was  sixteen 
days  in  one  trench  without  being  able  to  leave  it — 
without  once  being  able  to  stand  upright;  and  he 
says  that  no  one  who  has  ever  smelt  it  will  ever 
forget  the  smell  of  a  German  soldier!  The  filth 
and  the  dirt  and  the  sordid  awfulness  of  the  Ger- 
mans they  took  prisoners  at  that  time  was  beyond 
words.  This  was  in  the  early  part  of  the  war,  on 
the  first  line  of  battle. 

To  the  left  of  Mme.  Marie's  property  Is  one  of 
the  sweetest  little  bits  of  masonry  you  ever  saw 
in  your  life.  It  is  part  of  an  old  tower,  built  in 
the  time  of  Frangois  I. — unchanged,  pinkish  brick 
and  brown  stone.  It  was  built  for  the  archers  to 
climb  up  into  and  from  its  windows  to  look  over 
the  wonderful  Norman  plains  for  their  foes.  The 
moat  runs  around  it,  and  now,  from  one  window, 
one  sees  the  new  rose  gardens,  the  lovely  shaded 
alleys,  and  the  fairy-like  Norman  fields.  The 
little  place  has  undergone  many  changes,  the  late 
proprietors  having  turned  it  Into  a  grapery  and 
fruit  house,  because  It  Is  so  dry  and  healthy.  In 
the  high,  high  cellars  are  wooden  beams  and  a  big 
furnace,  and  there's  an  outside  staircase.  One 
goes  directly  Into  a  good-sized  room  with  a  bow 
window  looking  on  the  fosse.  Then  there  are 
two  other  tiny  rooms  with  cunning  little  views, 
two  bedrooms,  a  charming  parlour,  dining-room 
and  study  all  In  one,  and  place  for  a  little  bath- 
room. Upstairs  Is  the  serre  chaude — a  great  big 
warm  greenhouse,  where  one  could  make  an  en- 
chanting jardin  d'hiver.    With  the  outlay  of  very 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         249 

little  money,  this  tiny  place  could  be  transformed 
into  a  dream  of  a  place  to  go  and  pass  the  Sun- 
day or  a  few  quiet  days.  As  I  write  of  it,  doesn't 
it  sound  sweet?  Can't  you  smell  the  Norman 
hayfields,  wafting  in  their  sweetness?  If  you 
could  hear  the  charming  tone  of  the  little  church 
bell — for  the  church  and  just  a  handful  of  quaint 
little  houses  fling  themselves  against  the  chateau 
wall.  From  this  little  pavilion  you  could  almost 
put  out  your  hand  and  set  the  hands  of  the  village 
church  clock  I  .  .  .  Well,  I  have  lots  of  friends 
who  have  beautiful  places,  but  none  of  them  have 
given  me  a  little  pavilion  to  which  I  can  flee  and 
which  I  can  adore.  Mme.  Marie  has.  And  next 
week  she  is  coming  to  town  to  choose  the  papers ; 
she  is  going  to  paint  and  paper  it  with  her  ex- 
quisite taste,  she  is  going  to  put  in  the  bathroom, 
and  I  am  going  to  give  the  bathtub  and  lavabo; 
and  weVe  going  to  fix  it  up  together,  and  there  I 
can  go  when  I  like.  And  when  the  weather  gets 
hot  in  Paris,  I  am  going  to  take  Miss  Methley 
and  finish  my  book  there.  It  is  restful  just  to 
think  of  it,  as  Miss  Methley  says  as  she  writes 
this  letter.  I  am  just  springing  it  on  her,  as  it  was 
sprung  on  me:  and  if  I  never  go,  and  if  I  never 
see  it  again,  I  can't  forget  the  generous  sweetness 
of  my  old  friend,  for  whom  IVe  always  had  an 
affection  and  whom  I  have  known  now  for  twenty 
years.  Of  course,  her  mania  is  to  furnish  and 
install,  but  it's  very  nice  that  she  wants  to  include 
me  in  this  exquisite  installation.  I  felt  quite  differ- 
ently about  the  country  when  I  left  it  this  time. 
The  whole  thing  is  so  charming  and  so  exquisite. 


250  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Little  places  are  horrible  as  a  rule,  but  a  perfect 
little  place  on  an  enormous,  beautiful  estate  is 
another  thing.  If  the  affair  works,  I  can  fit  up  a 
tiny  kitchen  downstairs,  which  I  shall  want  to  do, 
and  be  chez  moi  entirely.  At  any  time  I  can  take 
out  a  friend — for  there  will  be  two  bedrooms  and 
we  are  quite  apart  from  the  chateau. 

So  much  wonderful  kindness  has  been  shown 
me  in  these  old  countries.  I  can  never  forget  the 
goodness  poured  upon  me;  and  of  course  I  feel 
that  in  turn  I  should  be  willing  to  pour  out  myself 
into  hands  that  are  stretched  out  to  receive.  .  .  . 

I  am  sure  that  I  make  you  feel  something  of  the 
rich,  beautiful  atmosphere  of  that  Norman  land 
as  I  saw  it  this  week.  Through  the  little  village 
pass  only  soldiers,  to  and  from  the  towns;  sol- 
diers of  the  reserve,  soldiers  of  the  entrenchments 
around  Paris;  and  some  going  home.  In  the  far 
distance,  when  the  wind  ws  (let  us  say)  cruel, 
we  heard  the  heavy  thunder  of  the  German  guns 
bombarding  Soissons,  only  sixty  kilometres  away. 
Ecquivilly  is  only  a  few  miles  from  St.  Germain 
and  a  few  miles  from  Trouvllle,  and  if  Bessie  is 
at  St.  Germain  In  September,  and  Cousin  Lottie 
at  Trouvllle,  It  will  be  amusing  to  be  myself  be- 
tween them  both.  Of  course  It  may  be  only  a 
dream.  It  seems  too  much  to  count  on  to  have 
an  exquisite  little  country  place.  .  .  . 

It  seems  terrible  to  write  of  material  things, 
doesn't  it?  when  the  great  spiritual  struggle  Is 
going  on  everywhere.  For  some  reason  or  other, 
I  have  not  bought  one  of  these  beautiful  objects 
which  I  have  purchased  lately  without  feeling  that 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         251 

I  was  possessing  something  more  of  this  beautiful 
country's  art — keeping  and  protecting  something 
more  of  France  for  posterity. 

One  of  the  guests  at  Mme.  Marie's  had  come 
from  Arras,  where  her  chateau,  with  all  her 
treasures  gathered  together  for  forty  years — 
everything — had  been  stolen,  sent  back  to  Ger- 
many, and  her  place  reduced  to  powder.  Your 
blood  would  boil  if  you  could  hear  the  Comte  de 
Puy's  stories — that  is.  If  it  hasn't  boiled  and  over- 
flowed already. 

I  am  very  interested  in  writing  you  this  letter 
to-day,  my  dear,  from  this  little  home,  which  I 
left  just  a  year  ago  last  Saturday  in  such  haste 
and  distress.  It  seems  strange,  doesn't  It?  Then 
I  was  planning  for  destruction  and  disintegration ; 
and  now,  in  the  same  country,  still  under  menace, 
still  with  horrors  around  us,  I  find  courage  to 
plan  for  new  footholds  on  this  land.  France 
seems  peculiarly  sacred  to  me,  its  ground  watered 
by  the  blood  of  those  brave  and  gallant  sons.  Its 
very  wings  seem  lifted  by  invisible  hands.  Noth- 
ing in  history  has  ever  been  more  wonderful  than 
Its  great,  patient  effort  against  a  horrible  invading 
force,  against  every  quality  that  we  all  despise, 
and  against  which,  with  one  common  Interest,  we 
fight  and  have  fought  for  generations. 

It  is  just  a  year  ago  last  night  since  Henry 
Dadvisard  ran  down  the  stairs  in  the  Rue  Galilee, 
after  bidding  good-bye  to  Mme.  de  S.  When 
he  got  to  the  last  stair,  there  In  the  hall  were 
grouped  all  the  servants,  to  wish  him  Godspeed — 
the  women  first,  and  the  valets  and  other  men  at 


252  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

the  door.  Mme.  de  S.,  whom  he  had  kissed  and 
strained  to  his  heart,  twice  turning  and  running 
back  upstairs  to  kiss  her  again — watched  him. 
The  cook  had  been  thirty  years  in  the  house;  he 
kissed  her  on  both  cheeks  and  wrung  her  hands. 
Then,  when  he  came  to  the  men  at  the  door,  he 
bade  them  care  for  his  adopted  mother  loyally  and 
well ;  and  to  the  little  footman  who  held  the  door 
open  for  him,  he  said,  putting  his  hand  on  Al- 
bert's shoulder:  "Toi,  mon  petit,  je  te  reverrai 
la-bas."  How  strange  and  how  beautiful !  Henry 
Dadvisard  went  to  his  regiment,  joined  later — as 
you  know — the  infantry,  and  there,  In  that  com- 
pany, "la-bas" — was  poor  little  Albert,  frail 
wraith  of  humanity  that  he  was — only  nineteen. 
He  carried  the  flag,  and  he  fell  two  days  after 
Henry,  on  the  same  glorious  field.  .  .  . 

I  think  the  expression  "La-bas"  thrilling  and 
expressive  beyond  words. 

I  found  Mme.  de  S.  last  night  weeping  over 
the  crowding  memoirs  that  each  anniversary  of 
these  days  brings.  "I  have  been  able,"  she  said, 
"to  remember  each  day,  and  he  has  seemed  living 
to  me  until  now.  Now — to-night — as  once  more 
I  seem  to  see  him  run  down  those  stairs  and  go, 
he  is  gone.**  .  .  . 

I  had  not  thought,  when  I  began  to  write  to 
you  to-day,  what  a  fitting  close  this  letter  is  to 
these  letters  of  a  year;  but  it  is  so.  Strongly, 
wonderfully,  throughout  these  months  stand  out, 
shine  and  inspire,  the  ideals  of  Love,  Courage, 
Devotion:  Patience  in  terrible  sufferings;  Charity 
and   Tenderness,    Self-forgetfulness :    Gifts   that 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         253 

mean  sacrifice — as  from  one  end  of  the  earth  to 
the  other  men  are  laying  down  life  for  a  holy 
Cause.  Over  these  cruel  sacrifices  rise  the  spirit 
of  ineffable  youth;  the  glory  of  patriotism;  love 
of  home  and  country — all  which  makes  the  foun- 
dation of  the  human  race  enduring.  I  close  with 
the  beautiful  words  of  Henry  Dadvlsard  to  his 
squadron  as  he  bade  them  good-bye : — 

*'Above  all  the  changes  that  agitate  humanity, 
three  things  alone  exist  and  remain:  The  Intelli- 
gence which  comprehends,  the  Will  which  believes, 
and  above  everything  else,  the  Sentiment  by  which 
we  know  how  to  love  J* 

As  ever, 
Marie. 


The  Farewell  of  Henry  Dadvisard  to  his 
Squadron  of  Cuirassiers,  which  he  left 

TO  JOIN  THE  66th  ReGIMENT  OF  InFANTRY. 

Comrades, 

I  have  gathered  you  together  this  morning  to 
say  good-bye  to  you. 

I  am  not  going  to  speak  to  you  of  the  Present, 
because  it  is  a  heartrending  moment  against  which 
my  heart  breaks.  .  .  . 

I  am  not  going  to  speak  to  you  of  the  Future, 
because  the  future  belongs  to  God  alone.  .  .  . 

But  I  have  the  right— Indeed,  it  is  my  duty — 
to  recall  to  you  the  Past  .  .  .  the  Past  which  we 
have  made  together  and  which  we  have  lived  to- 
gether ! 


254  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Officers,  non-commissioned  officers,  brigadiers 
and  troopers  of  my  beloved  Squadron  I  For  every 
man  of  you  who  has  ever  come  under  my  aegis, 
I  have  had  but  one  word,  one  single  order:  Duty. 
It  is  in  order  to  more  completely  accomplish  my 
own  duty  that  to-day  I  have  the  courage  to  part 
from  you. 

And  you,  all  of  you,  with  a  unanimous  elan, 
with  a  magnificent  generosity,  and  with  the  spirit 
of  your  adorable  youth — ^you  have  responded  to 
my  call  and  you  have  placed  your  heart  in  my 
hands.  .  .  .  And  it  is  for  this  that  I  want  to 
thank  you.  This  moment  contains  a  happiness 
that  no  other  human  love  could  ever  equal.  .  .  . 

Now  go  back  to  your  duty,  without  discourage- 
ment, without  sadness,  recalling  to  yourselves  un- 
ceasingly the  one  great  thought  that  we  have  often 
followed  together:  this — To  know  that  no  one 
man  is  indispensable,  and  that  above  all  the 
changes  that  agitate  humanity,  three  things  alone 
exist  and  remain:  the  Intelligence  which  com- 
prehends, the  Will  which  believes,  and  above 
everything  else,  the  Sentiment  by  which  we  know 
how  to  love. 


Les  Adieux  a  mon  Escadron 

Mes  amis, 

Je  vous  ai  reunis  ce  matin  pour  vous  faire  mes 
adieux.  ... 

.  .  .  AlorsI  Je  ne  vous  parleral  pas  du  pres- 
ent, car  c'est  la  minute  dechirante  ou  mon  cceur 


CROIX  DE  GUERRE 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         255 

se  brisc;  je  ne  vous  parlerai  pas  de  Tavenir,  car 
ravenir  est  a  Dieu  seul;  mais  j'ai  le  droit,  jai  le 
devoir  de  rappeler  devant  vous  le  Passe  que  vous 
avez  fait  et  que  nous  avons  vecu  ensemble  .  .  .    ! 

OfEciers,  sous-officiers,  Brigadiers  et  cavaliers 
de  mon  Escadron  bien  aime,  chaque  fois  que 
Tun  de  vous  est  venu  se  ranger  sous  mon  egide, 
je  ne  lui  ai  jamais  propose  qu'un  but,  celui  du 
devoir  accompli.  Aujourd'hui,  c'est  pour  essayer 
de  m'en  rapprocher  davantage  que  j'ai  la  force 
de  me  separer  de  vous  I  Et  vous  tous  d'un  unan- 
ime  elan,  par  un  don  magnifique  de  votre  ador- 
able jeunesse,  vous  avez  repondu  a  mon  appel  en 
placant  a  nu  votre  coeur  dans  ma  main! 

.  .  .  Ah !  voila  ce  dont  je  veux  vous  remercier 
— voila  le  bonheur  qu'aucun  autre  amour  humain 
n'egalera  jamais! 

Eh  bien,  maintenant,  retournez  a  votre  devoir 
sans  decouragement,  sans  tristesse,  vous  rappelant 
cette  autre  grande  pensee  que  nous  avons  souvent 
aussi  evoquee  ensemble:  a  savoir  que  I'homme 
indispensable  n'existe  pas  et  qu'audessus  des 
changements  qui  agitent  I'humanite,  trois  seules 
choses  demeurent: 

^Intelligence  qui  comprend,  la  Volonte  qui 
croit  et  par-dessus  tout,  le  Sentiment  par  lequel 
nous  aimons ! 

St.  Amant,  26.2.15. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LETTERS 


THE  AUTHOR  AT  SALSON  AGGIORE 
September,  1915 


Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York, 

Salsomaggiore,  Sept.  12th,  191 5. 

My  dear  Belle, 

How  you  would  revel  in  the  beauty  with  which 
I  am  surrounded!  How  you  would  love  this 
country,  what  delight  you  would  take  in  all  I  am 
seeing!  You  know  I've  wanted  to  make  an  Ital- 
ian excursion  and  now,  when  Paris  and  all  it 
represented  of  responsibility  and  fatigue  and  sad- 
ness, was  growing  a  burden,  Italy  drew  me  irre- 
sistibly. 

For  years  I  have  wanted  to  come  to  Salsomag- 
giore. With  my  perfect  idea  of  geography,  I 
thought  it  was  on  the  Lake  Maggiore.  Nowhere 
near  it,  as  far  as  I  can  tell,  although  I  don't  know 
much  more  about  its  geography  now  than  I  did 
when  I  came ;  but  I  know  that  we  are  on  the  edge 
of  the  ''War  Zone."  Here  they  don't  make  so 
much  fuss  about  it  as  they  do  in  France,  and 
to-day  we  drove  into  it  bravely,  and  were  not 
once  stopped  for  a  passport.  I  can't  bear  to  use 
the  words  "war  zone."  I  am  tired,  heart  and 
soul,  of  the  word  "war" !  I  could  shut  my  eyes 
on  the  loveliness  of  these  towns  when  I  realise 
that  bombs  from  enemy  aircraft  were  dropped 

259 


26o  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

upon  Brescia — so  near  us — and  that  i6o  people 
were  killed.  .  .  . 

The  cure  here  is  wonderful — iodine  and  soda 
baths,  in  water  brown  and  salty.  When  it  gets 
in  your  mouth  you  can't  bear  it;  but  you  grow 
to  love  its  soft,  strengthening  effect  upon  your 
body.  I  get  up  very  early  in  the  morning  and 
walk  on  these  wonderful  hillsides,  where  the  figs 
are  growing  ripe,  where  the  grapes  are  growing 
ripe ;  and  when  once  up  on  a  dewy,  ravishing  little 
plateau,  down  in  the  valley  I  hear  that  rich,  mel- 
ancholy, swinging  note  of  the  bell  of  San  Bar- 
tolommeo,  the  little  chapel  of  the  town.  But  there 
is  nothing  sad  about  the  bell.  Alone  as  I  ani 
here,  pregnant  as  the  moment  and  time  is  with 
sadness,  for  some  reason  or  other  there  is  nothing 
melancholy  or  sad  about  any  of  it.  It  is  beautiful 
and  restful  and  full  of  charm. 

When  I  come  down,  refreshed  and  hot  and 
healthily  tired,  I  take  one  of  tliese  reddish  baths, 
stew  away  for  twenty  minutes,  and  then  comes  the 
most  divine  and  remarkable  cure  of  all — two' 
hours  and  a  half  wrapped  in  a  bath  robe,  lying 
on  a  balcony  in  the  broiling,  delicious  sun.  I  have 
done  this  for  ten  days,  and  I  never,  never,  never 
shall  forget  the  delight  of  those  hours  on  the  bal- 
cony of  this  hotel.  I  don't  move — neither  restless 
nor  nervous — I  look  away  beyond  these  soft, 
sweet  hills,  into  a  divine  sky,  and.  over  the  tops 
of  those  little  gentle  mountains,  soothing,  happy, 
promising  and  lovely  thoughts  come. 

I  feel  so  intensely  grateful  for  the  love  that 
has  been  in  my  life,  for  the  affection  and  kindness 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         261 

that  have  been  showered  upon  me,  for  my  splendid 
health  and  for  my  work. 

The  restaurant  amuses  me  enormously,  because 
it  is  full  of  picturesque  Romans  and  Florentines 
and  Neapolitans — the  noblesses  of  all  the  counties 
is  well  represented.  The  place  is  smart,  and  even 
now  quietly  gay!  There  are  soldiers  en  convales- 
cence ^  there  are  political  men  from  Rome;  and  I 
fike  to  watch  it  all.  .  .  .  Then  follow  a  little 
more  treatment — a  "pulverisation"  or  "inhala- 
tion"— and  sometimes  work  from  five  to  seven, 
sometimes  work  in  the  evening;  and  now  and  again 
an  opera  at  the  theatre,  which  lots  of  times  is 
not  half  bad. 

Caruso  comes  here  every  year  for  the  cure,  as 
do  many  of  the  famous  singers;  and  the  Queen 
Mother,  who  is  very  popular  and  beloved,  is  also 
an  annual  visitor  to  Salsomaggiore. 

I  wish  you  could  see  the  little  street  at  night, 
with  its  pink,  green  and  yellow  houses,  the  blue 
sky  above  it,  the  incandescent  lamps  swinging  in 
it,  the  brown  awnings,  and,  as  we  wander  home 
from  the  cinema,  a  little  cafe  filled  with  simple, 
cheerful  people,  congregated  to  laugh  and  enjoy — 
what  do  you  think? — a  Punch  and  Judy  show! 
Just  think  of  it — right  there  in  the  street  at 
night!  Oh,  it*s  too  amusing  and  attractive  for 
anything ! 

America  seems  far  away.  As  I  never  get  any 
letters  from  any  one,  nothing  brings  it  near.  I 
can't  help  but  feel,  in  contrasting  the  lives,  that 
over  there  we  are  always  scrapping  around  and 
going  like  mad  to  get  money  with  which  to  do 


262  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

something  else  that  nobody  really  wants  to  do 
very  much.  And  over  here  one  lives,  one  really 
lives.  You  just  stretch  out  your  arms  in  this  sun- 
light and  expand  and  breathe;  your  tense  nerves 
relax;  you're  ready  to  settle  down  here  with  a 
simple  companion  and  watch  life  around  you — 
take  what  part  you  can  and  enjoy  it.  That's  the 
way  I  feel.  Perhaps  it's  because  I  weigh  145  lbs.; 
perhaps  it's  because  I've  got  my  certificate  of 
baptism  here,  and  I  know  just  how  old  I  am.  I 
am  going  to  sleep  with  that  under  my  pillow,  for 
fear  somebody'll  read  it  I  Mother  sent  to  the 
place  where  she  was  born  and  got  her  certificate 
of  baptism,  and  found  she  was  four  years  younger 
than  she  thought.  Since  then  there's  been  no  liv- 
ing with  her!  She  has  the  airs  of  a  debutante. 
But  my  certificate  worked  the  wrong  way. 

Cremona  is  in  the  war  zone — I  have  to  write 
the  word  again,  though  I  don't  want  to.  If  I 
told  you  that  I  wished  the  sun  would  never  shine 
on  Germany  again,  that  the  moon  would  never 
lighten  its  harvest  fields  again,  how  fiendish  you 
would  think  me — how  you  would  criticise  my 
breaking  of  neutrality !  Ah,  when  I  think  of  the 
riches  they  have  destroyed,  when  I  think  of  the 
beauties  that  France  can  never  call  back  again, 
when  I  think  of  their  accumulated  horrors,  hu- 
man, material — I  am  no  longer  human  myself. 
And  here,  in  this  glowing  country,  with  its  jewels 
all  around  me,  I  feel  like  protecting  them  with  my 
arms  and  my  soul,  and  I  wish  I  had  fifty  lives  and 
could  gi  7e  them  all  to  these  lands  that  I  love. 
That's  the  way  I  feel.  ...  I  have  no  spirit  of 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         263 

criticism  In  regard  to  the  policy  of  my  own  coun- 
try. My  country — right  if  it's  right,  wrong  if  it's 
wrong — is  my  country  still. 

How  far  I  get  from  Cremona !  I  wanted  to  go 
there  because — do  you  remember? — there,  in  your 
little  parlour  one  night,  inspired  and  fired  by  some 
talk  we  had  had  together,  I  planned  out  a  little 
drama  on  the  idea  of  a  Stradivarius  violin  made  in 
Cremona.  I  drove  there  to-day  and  found  it 
glowing  under  a  September  sun.  The  Duomo 
has  a  Venetian  tower — high,  high  up  Into  the 
blue — a  great  big  light-blue  clock  on  It;  little 
arches  with  snowy  marble  figures  running  along 
to  the  right — I  can't  describe  architecture :  it's 
beyond  me.  It  was  like  a  pomegranate,  like  an 
orange,  like  some  wonderful  fruit.  Then  the 
basilica,  romanesque  and  baroque,  was  enor- 
mous and  brilliant  beyond  words.  Oh,  what 
would  I  not  give  to  have  had  you  see  with  me 
that  scene  to-day!  On  the  left  as  we  entered  was 
a  tiny  httle  chapel  to  the  Madonna,  all  red — bril- 
liant— a  crimson  lamp  burning  before  the  Heart 
of  Mary.  Pillars,  arches,  roof,  aisles,  every- 
where, painted,  decorated,  golden,  crimson — the 
most  jewel-like  and  brilliant  decoration  that  you 
can  fancy.  But  the  great  sight  was  the  High 
Altar,  lighted  with  candles  for  the  ''Salut."  Three 
priests  in  red  and  white  robes  were  officiating,  and 
with  the  delicate,  flickering  candlelight  blended 
the  azure  smoke  from  the  swinging  censers.  All 
the  church  was  full  of  the  people  of  Cremona — 
kneeling  on  that  stone  pavement  in  such  atti- 
tudes of  faithful  piety,  in  such  attitudes  of  appeal. 


264  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Old  men  praying  for  their  sons  in  the  fighting- 
line,  little  old  women  with  handkerchiefs  over 
their  heads;  children  young  and  old:  such  devo- 
tion, such  touching,  touching  attitudes  of  prayer. 
We  stood  and  watched  these  lights  and  the  won- 
derful spectacle  of  the  altar.  After  the  eleva- 
tion of  the  Host,  when  the  service  was  finished, 
every  light  was  extinguished,  as  if  by  magic, 
and  at  the  same  time  great  curtains  of  tapestry 
were  pulled  aside,  and  through  the  stained  glass 
windows,  all  over  the  altar,  poured  a  flood  of 
glorious  sunlight.  I  have  never  seen  anything 
like  it — never. 

I  have  become  acquainted  with  a  very  agree- 
able woman — the  Marchesa  di  Bourbon-Rangoni. 
She  is  here  with  her  little  boy.  She  looks  like 
an  American,  and  has  a  gentle  voice,  and  is  al- 
together simpatica.  She  is  separated  from  her 
husband, — and  lives  with  her  two  children  on 
the  Di  Faustina  property.  (Her  sister-in-law  is 
the  Principessa  di  Faustina.)  I  discovered  that 
we  had  many  mutual  friends,  and,  curiously 
enough,  the  Countess  d'Orsay  came  to-day,  and 
it  turned  out  that  she  is  a  friend  of  Marie  Ed- 
gar's. 

Yesterday  I  went  over  to  a  castello,  the  palace 
of  the  Soragna  family,  dating  from  the  year 
1000.  I  won't  describe  the  rooms  there,  with 
their  gold  and  crimson  walls;  but  right  in  the 
heart  of  the  castle  we  found  a  wonderful  little 
chapel,  and  high  up  in  the  red-hung  gallery,  built 
in  for  the  noble  family,  the  woman  with  me  knelt 
down    and    prayed.      I    could    not    but   wonder 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         265 

whether  she  was  praying  for  her  son  in  the  fight- 
ing-line, or  for  her  daughter,  whom  she  is  going 
to  bring  out  shortly  into  Roman  society,  or  for 
her  own  lover,  fighting  in  the  Trentino.  What  a 
complex,  wonderful  mixture  life  is,  isn't  it?  Half 
the  world  praying  for  what  the  other  half  has 
got  and  vice  versa.  Lonely  women  who  have  had 
husbands  and  lost  them;  lonely  women  who  wish 
they  could  lose  their  husbands;  lonely  women 
who  have  no  husbands  and  want  them;  lonely 
women  who  have  no  husbands  and  don't  want 
them — and  what  in  heaven's  name  is  coming 
their  way? 

Did  1  tell  you  what  a  rich  German  said  to 
Gaetano  one  night  he  dined  with  him  in  Philadel- 
phia? After  showing  Gaetano  the  pictures  by 
Old  Masters  in  his  library,  and  when  Gaetano 
had  properly  admired  them  all,  the  gentleman 
said,  with  a  melancholy  expression:  "Oh,  it's 
all  very  well;  but,  you  see,  they  don't  pay  any 
dividends."  That's  one  way  of  looking  at  a  pic- 
ture gallery!  You  can  imagine  how  it  struck  an 
Italian  to  whom  beautiful  pictures  have  always 
meant  more  than  dividends — I  suppose  you  will 
say  "Unfortunately." 

In  one  of  your  letters  you  asked  me  what  I 
thought  of  American  diplomacy?  It  is  impossi- 
ble from  this  distance  to  understand  it.  For- 
tunately, I  don't  have  to  be  responsible  for  any 
people's  diplomacy.  The  question  is  too  great 
and  too  far  away.  Over  here  we  see  the  insults 
offered  to  the  United  States ;  we  follow  the  trick- 
ery and  the  lying  stupidity  of  the  Germans  with 


266  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

surprise  and  disgust;  but  I  feel,  too,  that  their 
filthy  expectorations  don't  always  reach  as  far 
as  our  big,  distant  country.  Loathsome  beasts 
— ^pouring  forth  their  slime  and  their  filth  over 
the  civihsed  world!  That's  how  I  feel  about 
them.  I  am  glad  I  am  not  in  Archibald's  boots. 
I  crossed  on  the  Rotterdam  with  him. 


Hotel  des  Thermes,  Salsomaggiore, 
Sept.   17th,  1 91 5. 

Dearest  Mother, 

I  have  been  very  much  delighted  with  your 
letters.  Hilda  let  me  read  hers.  I  do  think 
that  you  are  too  remarkable  for  words.  Your 
handwriting  is  so  clear,  and  everything  you  say 
said  better  than  any  one  I  know  says  it — than 
they  would  say  it,  if  they  had  it  to  say !  I  don't 
know  any  one  with  your  mind  and  your  spirit.  I 
feel  as  though  I  never  could  thank  you  enough 
for  being  my  mother.  I  am  sure  this  will  please 
you. 

It  takes  an  awfully  long  time  for  letters  to 
come  here,  and  of  course  it  takes  an  awfully  long 
time  for  those  letters  that  are  not  written  to  me 
to  come !  And  the  result  is  that  I  don't  have  any 
letters   at  all — just  a  few  scraps. 

I  haven't  written  you  anything  about  this  en- 
chanted place.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  feel 
what  it  has  been  for  me. 

I  don't  understand  my  own  temperament  at  all 
— I  suppose  it  is  not  necessary  that  I  should.  If 
I  could  only  go  on  as  I  start,  how  far  I  would 
get,  and  what  I  should  accomplish! 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         267 

There  seems  to  have  been  an  especial  blessing 
in  this  place  for  me.  I  hope  it  is  a  real  one.  I 
hope  it's  not  just  my  romantic  imagination  that 
makes  it  seem  so.  Whether  it  is  or  not,  the 
pleasure  that  I  have  had  on  this  balcony  I  can 
never,  never  lose.  I  shall  remember  always  these 
golden  hours.  To-day  I  lay  three  hours  out  here 
in  the  sunlight — scarcely  dreaming,  basking  like 
these  little  green  lizards  that  run  out  over  the 
stones  and  scare  me  to  death.  There  is  a  very 
magic  in  the  air,  too.  Every  country  has  its  in- 
dividual odour  and  smell.  (Paris,  in  the  au- 
tumn, when  the  wood  fires  are  first  lit — heavenly 
odour,  full  of  memories!)  Here  the  scent  of  the 
land  is  delectable — these  fields,  warmed  by  the 
most  ardent  suns,  give  out  the  smell  of  red  and 
white  clover,  and  of  some  Italian  flowers  whose 
names,  of  course,  I  don't  know,  being  the  least 
botanist  in  the  world;  but  I  know  it's  not  garlic! 

One  could  take  delightful  drives  if  one  could 
pay  for  them.  There  is  every  kind  of  vehicle, 
from  a  little  two-wheel  waggon  a  few  inches  high, 
drawn  by  a  microscopic  donkey,  to  motors  of 
all  kinds  and  makes.  I  believe  that  if  I  could 
settle  down  and  live  in  Italy,  I  might  become  a 
better  character.  I  really  want  to  economise 
here,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  one  might  almost 
find  a  charm  in  living  within  one's  income! 

The  doctor  wants  me  to  take  twenty-five  baths, 
which  would  mean  that  I  would  not  leave  here 
before  the  first  of  October;  then  spend  a  week 
in  Florence,  and  the  rest  of  the  month  near  Rome 
— perhaps  in   Perugia — and   really  finish   ''Car- 


268  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

michers  Past."  This  I  plan  to  do.  I  am  going 
to  stay  in  the  little  pension  you  and  Violet  and 
I  stayed  in  together  as  cheaply  as  I  can;  and  I 
am  going  on  cheaply  until  I've  finished  this  novel. 

You  say  that  I  should  be  grateful  because  I 
can  have  this  wonderful  cure  and  rest.  Per- 
haps it  is  because  I  am  so  grateful  for  all  I  have 
that  the  good  things  come  to  me.  Certainly  my 
heart  is  just  overflowing  with  thanksgiving  for  the 
moral  and  spiritual  uplift  that  this  rich  experience 
has  been. 

You  remember  the  desk  that  you  have  there  in 
your  parlour?  That  desk  stood  in  my  little  apart- 
ment in  Twenty-Seventh  Street,  as  you  know,  the 
winter  dear  John  was  with  me.  I  wrote  every- 
thing that  I  had  to  write  that  winter  at  that  desk; 
and  sometimes  John  wrote  there  too.  I  can  see 
him  sitting  writing  at  it  now.  It  was  February 
— the  mohth  he  died.  I  had  planned  to  have 
a  little  party  on  the  27th  of  that  month,  in  that 
tiny  little  sitting-room,  and  ask  a  few  of  my 
friends  to  come  and  hear  me  read  aloud  my  first 
short  story — -something  he  liked  very  much  in- 
deed. It  was  called  'The  Path  of  the  Storms- 
do  you  remember? — and  came  out  in  Harper^ s 
after  John  died.  I  remember  looking  up  at  the 
calendar  that  hung  over  that  desk  and  finding 
February  27th,  and  marking  a  black  cross  on 
it — the  day  of  my  party  to  be.  The  27th  came, 
and  it  was  the  day  John  died.  .  .  . 

I  speak  of  this,  for  all  its  sadness,  to  follow 
on  to  something  else.  Sitting  at  that  desk,  John 
wrote  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  in  his  strong  hand, 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         269 

with  a  bit  of  pencil,  something  that — for  some 
reason  or  other — had  crossed  his  mind:  just  a 
line : — 

"Oh,  come  away  to  the  greenwood  tree!" 

I  don't  know  whether  It's  a  line  of  a  poem  or 
something  he  meant  to  elaborate;  but  when  I 
opened  that  desk  after  he  had  gone,  I  found 
that  little  errant  slip  of  paper.  It  was  dear  to 
me.  I  picked  It  up  and  fastened  It  just  across 
the  top  of  the  Inner  part  of  the  desk,  where  I 
kept  my  papers.  For  fourteen  years  It  was  always 
before  my  eyes.  I  never  read  It  but  It  seemed 
to  speak  to  me  with  a  peculiar  message.  Down 
In  Rome>  four  years  ago,  when  I  was  recovering 
from  pneumonia,  It  seemed  to  call  me  then.  I 
thought  of  It  constantly.  But  for  some  reason 
or  other,  although  the  call  was  decided  and  clear 
to  me,   I  have  never  answered  It. 

I  recur  to  all  this  to  say  that  here,  in  these 
September  days,  seventeen  years  after  he  wrote 
that  little  fugitive  line,  I  feel  that  I  have  re- 
sponded to  his  call.  You  know  that  I  have  never 
been  fond  of  the  country.  Thoroughly  urban 
and  Intensely  alive,  meditative  life  and  Isolation 
has  always  driven  me  to  melancholy  and  discon- 
tent. But  here — now  for  some  reason  I  can't 
tell  why — the  outdoors  has  spoken  to  me  for  the 
first  time  without  sadness.  For  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  over  these  small  and  gentle  hills,  I  have 
seen  the  sun  set  without  that  sharp  pain  at  the 
heart  that  beauty  gives  to  those  whose  lives  are 
solitary  and  who  have  suffered  a  great  deal.    For 


270  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

the  first  time,  I  have  seen  the  moon  rise,  and 
loved  it  calmly  for  its  pure  beauty,  without  long- 
ing and  without  regret. 

So,  dearest  Mother,  when  in  your  letter  to-day 
you  said  to  me  so  charmingly:  *'Let  companion- 
ship be  found  by  you  in  contemplating  the  works 
of  God  in  the  beautiful  country  where  you  have 
wandered  now,"  I  think  I  may  truly  say  to  you 
that  I  have  found  such  companionship. 

Not  long  before  I  sent  that  desk  over  to  you, 
that  beloved  little  scrap  of  paper  had  fluttered 
away.  I  don't  know  where  it  went.  It  was  ma- 
terial, but  its  spiritual  message  has  been  ful- 
filled. ... 

With  best  love. 

Ever, 
M. 


To  Miss  Charlotte  Andrews,  New  York, 

Salsomaggiore,  September  17th,  191 5. 

My  dear  Carlotta, 

You  know  how  often  I  have  called  you  by  an 
Italian  name.  I  have  thought  of  you  so  much 
since  I  have  come  to  Salso,  and  wished  a  dozen 
times  that  you  might  have  been  with  me  here. 
I  should  love  to  see  your  graceful  silhouette  pass- 
ing through  these  rooms.  This  happens  to  be 
one  of  the  places  that  I  think  you  would  enjoy 
immensely,  from  all  points  of  view.  Restful  and 
charming;  gay,  and  yet  not  too  blatantly  so  in 
this  sad  time. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         271 

The  Sicilian  soldiers  are  allowed  to  take  their 
long  knives  into  battle  with  them,  and  they  throw 
away  their  muskets  to  use  their  knives,  as  the 
Indians  do;  and  they  say  that  the  bravery  of 
those  little  Sicilians  has  been  superb.  When  the 
Austrians  see  them,  they  throw  up  their  hands 
immediately,  and  ask  to  be  made  prisoners;  and 
the  Sicilians  give  them  to  understand  that  theyVe 
not  taking  any  prisoners  to-day,  and  they  must 
fight  or  be  cut  up.  But  the  Austrians  take  prison- 
ers, when  they  can  get  them,  and  their  brutality 
is  pretty  well  shown  in  the  following  incident. 
They  took  pains  to  find  out  which  prisoners  were 
from  Calabria,  and  then  told  the  poor  chaps  that 
all  their  homes  had  been  destroyed  by  earth- 
quake; and  the  poor  prisoners  cried  like  children. 
There  seems  to  be  no  refinement  of  cruelty  that 
the  Austrians  and  Germans  have  not  employed, 
even  to  trafficking  with  the  sentiments  of  the 
prisoners  who  fall  into  their  hands. 

Much  of  the  cream  of  Roman  society  is  here 
at  present — everybody  very  simply  dressed  and 
quiet,  of  course.  It's  a  most  interesting  study 
for  me — so  different  from  anything  I  have  ever 
seen;  and  you  can't  think  how  sweet  and  cordial 
they  are  to  me— those  of  them  whom  I've  met. 

I  am  going  down  from  here  to  Florence  for  ten 
days,  to  stay  in  a  little  pension  where  Violet  and 
Mother  and  I  stayed  years  ago;  and  from  there 
to  Rome  for  a  few  days,  and  then  for  three  weeks 
to  Perugia. 

I  heard  a  charming  thing  the  other  day  about 
some  English  soldiers.     It  seems  that  where  they 


272  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

are  fighting,  up  in  Flanders,  under  a  little  hill 
some  thirty  or  forty  of  the  boys  had  been  buried 
in  a  little  cemetery  just  out  of  the  German  fire. 
It  was  safe,  but  it  was  dreary  and  lonely — a  bare 
cluster  of  graves.  There  happened  to  be,  not 
very  far  from  the  lines,  a  pond  overgrown  with 
water-lilies.  One  early  morning,  in  the  dawn, 
when  they  thought  it  safe  enough  to  risk,  several 
of  the  Tommies  swam  out  into  the  pond  and 
gathered  garlands  of  the  lilies,  and  carried  them 
over  to  the  graves.  The  soldier  who  wrote  it 
from  the  trenches  to  me  said:  "And  if  you'd 
known  the  men  who  did  it,  you  wouldn't  have 
supposed  that  one  of  them  was  soft-hearted 
enough  to  risk  his  life  to  put  a  lily  on  a  grave." 

If  you  write  me  before  the  15th  October,  ad- 
dress Sebasti  &  Reale,  Rome.  Otherwise,  4, 
Place  du  Palais  Bourbon,  Paris. 

With  love  to   all, 

Ever  devotedly, 

M. 


To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz,  New  York. 

Salsomaggiore,  Sept.  20th,  191 5. 

My  dear  Violet, 

Yesterday  I  went  for  a  motor  drive  with  the 
Marchesa  di  Rangoni  to  a  fifteenth  century  castle 
a  few  miles  from  Cremona.  The  Marchese  G. 
S.  at  twenty-two  has  come  into  possession  of  this 
old  fief — in  his  family  for  500  years.  He  is  a 
fine  boy,  and  lives  there,  the  tiny  little  village 
coming  in,  almost,  at  the  window  of  his  study, 


Portrait  by  Mrs.  Albert  Herter 


MRS.  VICTOR  MORAWETZ 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         273 

as  he  looks  at  the  town  across  the  moat.  There 
he  sees  the  ducks  and  the  geese,  and  the  little 
bent  old  women,  and  those  who  are  left  of  the 
men,  the  miniature  donkey  carts,  the  charming 
children,  the  clean  roofs,  the  pink  and  violet 
and  yellow  houses;  and  from  son  to  father,  and 
on  back,  back,  all  the  eyes  of  the  villagers  have 
been  turned  toward  the  castello,  where  his  peo- 
ple have  been  nobles  so  long.  His  mother  died 
in  May,  leaving  him  this  possession.  There  are 
miles  of  lovely  park,  through  which  we  wandered 
at  sunset,  the  rosy  light  filling  the  bosks  and 
shining  on  the  turrets.  Bebetta  Rangoni  and  I 
went  with  a  young  Venetian  officer,  there  on  leave 
for  a  few  days. 

"The  war,*'  he  said,  "which  is  taking  so  much 
from  every  one,  seems  to  have  given  to  us  Vene- 
tians Venice  again  for  our  own.  No  one  is  there 
but  the  people  themselves  and  we,  who  are  really 
fighting  for  our  hearthstones.  At  night  there 
are  no  lights — none — but  a  few  little  shaded 
lamps,  like  in  the  fifteenth  century.  But  not  even 
the  hand  of  God  has  put  out  the  moon  and  the 
stars,  and  Venice  is  there  under  their  light.  Oh," 
he  said,  "we  who  are  born  in  Venice  are  born,  I 
believe,  with  an  extra  beauty-loving  sense — we 
love  it  sol  And  just  now  its  treasures  seem  so 
rich  and  so  precious." 

He  turned  to  me  and  said:  "You  must  come, 
Signora,  and  see  Venice  now — the  real  Venice — 
and  watch  with  us  for  the  Austrian  aeroplanes — 
if  they  still  dare  to  come!" 

Afterwards  we'  had  tea  in  the  tiny  room  that 


274  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

the  chatelain  occupies,  because,  of  course,  the 
salons  and  libraries  are  never  lived  in.  Then 
we  drove  home,  many,  many  miles,  the  moon- 
light's soft,  warm  radiance  falling  over  these 
lovely  fields. 

This  week  I  am  going  to  Bologna,  and  I  will 
write  you  of  what  I  find  interesting  there.  Then 
to  Florence  for  ten  days,  to  stay,  my  dear,  in  the 
Villino  Solf erino — to  stay  in  the  same  old  rooms ! 
Think  of  the  memories  I  shall  find  there!  I 
hope  to  carry  "Carmichel's  Past"  on  far  towards 
its  finish  in  the  same  room  where  I  wrote  many 
chapters  of  ''The  Girl  from  his  Town"  and  "The 
Successful  Wife";  and  where  you  and  I,  at  mid- 
night, chased  that  cunning,  distracting  little 
mouse!  How  far,  far  away  it  all  seems!  If 
any  one  had  told  you  then  that  you  would  marry 
a  distinguished  man  and  have  such  a  varied  and 
interesting  life,  how  hard  you  would  have  found 
it  to  believe !  We  were  both  so  poor,  and  I  was 
so  anxious  and  so  troubled  about  our  future  that 
I  could  hardly  work.  I  can  remember  now  wak- 
ing in  the  night  and  feeling  the  weight  of  the 
burden  upon  me  of  years  to  come  in  which  I 
might  be  too  tired  to  work,  and  still  the  demands 
of  life  would  have  to  be  met.  Fortune  and  fate, 
my  dear,  were  kinder  than  we  knew.  Isn't  that 
so?  Everybody  will  ask  for  you  when  I  go  back 
there,  and  it  is  lovely  to  think  that  I  have  only 
good  news  to  tell. 

I'll  close  now,  for  the  present,  with  much  love. 

As  ever, 

M. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         275 


To  the  Marquise  de  Sers,  Paris. 

Hotel  des  Thermes,  Salsomaggiore, 

September  25th,  19x5. 

Dear  Friend, 

I  do  not  want  to  leave  this  lovely  place,  where 
for  three  weeks  I  have  had  such  benefit,  without 
sending  you  a  few  loving  words. 

I  think  so  much  of  last  year,  of  what  these 
days  were  to  you,  how  you  lived  them  through 
with  patient  grace  and  wonderful  fortitude,  as 
your  mind  and  heart  followed  your  boy  in  Flan- 
ders. It  is  very  impressive  in  the  Bible  where  it 
says:  "The  thing  that  I  feared  has  come  upon 
me,'*  and  I  remember  a  friend  of  mine  in  Amer- 
ica, who  in  one  year  lost  her  husband  and  her 
son,  saying  to  me  with  wonderful  composure, 
but  great  tenderness :  *'I  have  nothing  to  fear  now 
any  more.  When  it  rains,  when  it  is  cold,  when 
there  is  danger  on  land  or  sea,  my  heart  never 
will  tremble  again,  because  there  is  no  one  whose 
going  out  into  the  storm  can  fill  me  with  anguish 
and  unrest."  .  .  . 

I  am  going  from  here  to-day  to  Bologna,  Ra- 
venna, Rimini,  and  Florence.  The  cure  has  done 
me  vast  good.  Although  I  am  not  entirely  well, 
I  feel  like  another  person,  and  I  should  like  to 
come  here  every  year.  Perhaps  next  year,  dear- 
est friend,  you  will  come  with  me;  for  there  is 
much  about  it  that  you  would  like  and  enjoy, 
and  you  can  be  perfectly  comfortable. 

It  has  interested  me  very  much,  as  a  foreigner 
and  a  student  of  life,  to  see  what  little  there  has 


276  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

been  to  see  here  of  the  real  and  ''best"  Roman 
society.  Some  of  the  smartest  and  most  worldly 
of  the  Roman  aristocracy  are  here  at  Salso.  I 
have  made  one  very  good  friend,  however,  in 
the  Marchesa  di  Bourbone-Rangoni,  who  has  a 
lovely  property  near  Florence,  on  which  she  lives 
alone  with  her  two  children — a  beautiful  boy 
and  a  lovely  little  girl.  She  administers  her  own 
estate  spendidly,  has  doubled  her  Income  since 
she  became  a  farmer,  and  when  she  knits  woollen 
things  for  the  soldiers,  she  sits  there  knitting 
them  from  the  wool  of  her  own  sheep.  I  call 
that  very  chic  Indeed;  don't  you?  (I  dare  say 
she  could  give  us,  who  need  It  so  much,  some 
wool.)  She  Is  a  tall,  graceful  woman,  very  disi- 
tingulshed,  with  a  great  deal  of  genre  and  attrac- 
tion. I  like  her  Immensely.  I  think  she  would 
be  a  good  friend,  and  she  certainly  Is  a  most  agree- 
able one. 

One  of  the  most  popular  women  In  Rome,  and 
one  of  the  undoubted  leaders  of  society,  a  woman 
whose  word  Is  quite  sufficient  to  make  you — and 
I  am  sure  she  is  too  generous  to  wwmake  any- 
body!— Is  the  Marchesa  di  Rudini.  Of  course 
you  know  whom  I  mean.  She  is  tres  grande 
dame,  with  a  poise  and  charm.  My  few  short 
entretiens  with  her  have  been  delightful,  and  It 
has  been  a  pleasure  to  exchange  Ideas  with  some- 
body. 

I  send  you  my  best  and  dearest  love,  and  will 
write  you  from  Florence  what  I  am  doing  there. 

As  ever, 

M. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         277 
To  Madame  Hugues  Le  Roux,  Petrograd, 

Rimini,  September  28th,  1915. 

Dear  Bessie, 

We  are  in  the  Italian  War  Zone,  and  so  far 
I  have  been  able  to  circulate  freely  and  without 
the  slightest  inconvenience,  now  that  our  pass- 
ports are  en  regie  from  Bologna.  It  is  hard  to 
believe  that  all  the  formalities  that  make  travel 
so  difficult  in  France  exist.  Only  three  things 
make  us  know  that  Italy  is  at  war :  the  grey  clouds 
of  soldiers  drifting  hither  and  thither  through 
the  tiny  streets  of  these  little  towns,  the  fact  that 
we  are  the  only  tourists  anywhere,  and  the  me- 
diaeval darkness  of  the  streets  at  night.  Think 
how  charming  it  is  to  be  in  a  country  free  of 
tourists,  free  of  travellers,  and — with  the  Itali- 
ans— to  have  Italy  all  to  oneself! 

The  beauty  of  Bologna  at  night,  as  we  walked 
out  late  in  the  streets,  hither  and  thither,  under 
the  arcades,  was  beyond  compare.  Think  of  the 
whole  city — you  can't  say  lighted,  for  it  was  not 
lighted,  but  faintly  illumined  by  little  lights  flick- 
ering through  turquoise  and  peacock  blue  shaded 
glass.  Just  picture  it!  Far  down  a  dim  arcade, 
one  caught  a  little  spark  of  azure;  then  there 
would  be  a  little  group  of  green  lights.  Every 
light  in  the  strawberry  and  peach  coloured  city 
green  or  blue !  This  same  wonderful  phantas- 
magoria of  lights  is  everywhere  in  this  War  Zone, 
menaced  by  enemies  from  the  air  and  the  sea. 

When  you  think  of  the  learned  and  richly  in- 
teresting letters  written  about  Italy,  in  Italy,  and 


278  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

from  Italy,  it  seems  futile  for  an  unimportant 
person  to  write  any  others;  but  I  don't  think  you 
often  find  Italy  written  of  by  a  frankly-confessed 
ignoramus — by  some  one  who  knows  nothing  at 
all  about  either  geography  or  history.  I  don't 
know  where  anything  is — neither  its  position  on 
the  map  nor  the  juxtaposition  of  towns;  and  I 
don*t  know  who  any  one  was,  and  I  never  see 
sights;  and  yet,  as  I  do  see  them,  and  as  they 
unveil  themselves  to  me,  and  as  their  beauty 
reveals  itself  to  me,  how  I  love  it! 

In  the  train,  on  the  way  to  Ravenna,  a  most 
gracious  and  interesting  woman,  whom  I  took  to 
be  English,  spoke  to  me,  and  was  so  good  as  to 
tell  us  where  we  could  get  luncheon  and  where 
we  could  stay  in  Ravenna  and  Rimini.  Then  we 
fell  into  conversation,  and  when,  at  the  station, 
a  tiny  cart  made  of  woven  ropes  drove  up  and 
took  her  bags  and  her  husband's  valises  away, 
she  herself  ciceroned  us  to  one  of  the  churches. 
There,  in  the  sunlight,  with  her  for  guide,  we 
saw  for  the  first  time  the  Byzantine  mosaics  in 
all  their  beauty  in  the  church  of  Sant'  Appollinare 
Nuova.  Later,  she  asked  us  to  go  and  see  her 
"house"  before  we  left  Ravenna. 

The  Contessa  Rasponi  was  modest  when  she 
spoke  of  her  "house."  On  foot  I  went  and  found 
it,  and  it  rose  up  out  of  the  cobblestones  of  the 
street — a  fine,  warm-hued  palace — a  big  palace, 
with  noble  windows  and  a  noble  staircase,  and 
noble  rooms.  There  is  nothing  modern  about  it 
at  all — not  even  the  furniture ;  and  Ravenna  folds 
it  around.    Through  the  open  windows  one  looks 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         279 

to  the  clustering  roofs  of  the  city.     All  the  lit- 
tle town  seems  to  come  in  at  the  windows. 

"Here,"  said  the  Contessa,  "I  like  to  live,  be- 
cause those  I  know  and  love  have  all  lived  to- 
gether here  for  six  hundred  years." 

(Do  you  know  anybody  you'd  like  to  live  six 
hundred  years  with?  It's  nice  to  find  that  some 
people  are  fond  enough  of  their  family  and 
cousins  to  want  to  go  right  on.) 

Contessa  Rasponi  is  a  perfect  dear,  and  her 
husband  most  charming.  Theirs  was  the  first 
intermarriage  between  the  old  famihes  Rasponi 
and  Pasolini  of  Ravenna  for  six  hundred  years ! 

Silent  Ravenna !  And  yet  I  heard  several 
sounds  there.  (I  will  tell  you  what  they  were.) 
But  the  town  is,  taken  altogether,  the  silentest 
inhabited  place  I  ever  knew.  The  name  is  beau- 
tiful, isn't  it? — Ravenna.  And  Rimini,  too.  How 
those  words  seem  to  sing  and  call  back  again  in 
their  cadences  the  figures  of  the  past !   .  .  . 

There  are  really  no  vehicles  at  all — just  a  prim- 
itive cab  or  two,  easy-going  victorias  from  the 
Middle  Ages.  You  don't  call  donkeys  and  what 
they  draw  vehicles :  they're  just  marvellously  cun- 
ning, darling  little  things  to  go  about  with  and 
in.  And  such  heavenly  little  asinif  And  such 
old-world,  unchanged  in  character  and  manufac- 
ture, little  carts — just  a  few  bits  of  rope  tied  to- 
gether and  wheels  dangling  somewhere,  and  then 
a  donkey  a  couple  of  feet  high.  These  are  the 
vehicles.  Otherwise  Ravenna  goes  about — I  am 
so  sorry  to  say  so — on  bicycles.  It's  incongruous, 
isn't  it?      (Do  you  remember  our  bicycle  rides 


28o  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

at  Divonne?)  The  bell  of  the  bicycle  was  one 
of  the  sounds  I  heard  in  Silent  Ravenna. 
Priests  and  tradespeople,  factory  girls  In  black 
and  white  polka-dotted  dresses,  gaily-coloured 
handkerchiefs  tied  over  their  heads,  flit  through 
the  streets  on  the  practical  bicycle.  But  one 
doesn't  mind  them:  they  are  quickly  gone,  and 
the  shadows  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  the  glow  of 
the  Byzantine  settles  around  Ravenna. 

Don't  worry;  I'm  not  going  to  give  you  any 
guide  book  description  of  Ravenna !  I  only  know 
that  I  didn't  know  what  mosaics  could  be,  or 
what  the  word  meant.  You  come  across  a  little 
round  tower  like  a  cowshed  or  a  pig-stye,  and 
you  wonder  why  they  have  left  It  and  what  the 
ages  meant  by  It;  and  you  open  the  door  and  go 
in,  and  then  you  know.  Jewels  on  jewels  mul- 
tiplied; and  such  colours!  Turquoise,  peacock, 
golds  and  whites;  swans  and  angels  and  doves, 
saints  and  patriarchs,  on  wall  and  ceiling,  one 
after  another.  These  vulgar,  homely,  ugly  hovels 
blaze  with  beauty  like  some  captured  star.  Think 
of  such  delicate,  ephemeral  beauty  persisting  for 
fifteen  hundred  years! 

Ravenna!  The  very  name  chants  to  me  as 
I  say  It  and  think  about  it. 

And  the  little  balcony  of  Francesca's  house 
swings  up  in  the  blue  air.  I  wonder  they  did  not 
call  her  "Francesca  da  Ravenna."  She  seems  so 
much  more  a  part  of  It.  Ravenna  Is  such  a  lovely 
envelope  for  her  memory.  Dante,  exiled  here, 
drew  his  story  under  the  charm  of  her  native 
town.    I  am  sure  that  here  in  Ravenna  he  made 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         281 

his  Immortal  picture  of  her.  Here  she  was  a 
girl — dreaming,  probably,  over  the  sea-like 
marshes  that  isolated  her  town  and  that  stretched 
between  Ravenna  and  Rimini. 

If  I  could  only  make  you  feel  the  picture  of 
It!  But  I  can't.  I  am  surprised  that  so  little 
is  said  or  written  about  it.  It  is  a  marvel — a 
dream.  I  believe  that  I  shall  feel  the  silence  of 
Ravenna  all  my  life.  You'll  think  this  strange, 
when  I  enumerate  the  noises. 

High  up  from  an  open  window,  as  I  pass  along 
the  tiny  piazza,  I  hear  the  clicking  of  a  type- 
writer !  Way  down  one  of  the  thread-like  streets, 
close  to  the  leaning  tower,  I  saw  a  grey  group 
of  soldiers  enthralled  as  they  listened  to  a  mod- 
ern rag-time,  ground  out  by  just  such  a  hand- 
organ  as  Italy  brings  to  us  across  the  sea.  Then 
there  was  the  bicycle  bell.  And  then,  at  the  Al- 
bergo  San  Marco,  as  modern  as  a  good  hotel- 
keeper  who  has  tried  his  hand  In  Monte  Carlo, 
London,  and  Paris  can  make  It,  I  stayed  awake 
until  three  In  the  morning  with  those  of  Raven- 
na who  were  silent  by  day  and  vocal  by  night. 
It  Is  only  fair  to  say,  however,  that  there  were 
two  thousand  soldiers  quartered  in  the  town,  and 
the  poor  dears  were  going  to  the  front.  About 
six  next  morning,  after  two  hours  of  sleep,  I 
leaned  out  of  the  window  and  saw  them  march- 
ing away.  .  .  . 

I  have  just  had  your  cable  from  Yokohama — 
just  one  line  of  love.  Thank  you  for  spending 
the  money  to  send  it.  It  was  welcome  Indeed.  It 
found  me  here   (in  Florence)  last  night  when  I 


282  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

arrived,  after  a  200  kilometre  motor  drive  over 
the  Apennines.     (October  ist  now.) 

My  best  love  to  Robert  and  you, 

Ever  devotedly, 

M. 


To  Miss  B.  S,  Andrews,  New  York. 

Florence,  October  ist,  1915. 

My  dear  Belle, 

I  am  sorry  that  you  could  not  go  with  Bessie 
and  Robert  to  Russia  and  Japan,  but  in  this  case  I 
can  quite  understand  your  putting  business  be- 
fore pleasure.  I  expect  you'll  make  a  fortune 
out  of  cotton  and  motors,  and  be  a  real  Roths- 
child, speculating  on  the  war.  (As  you  have  no 
Hebrew  blood  in  your  veins,  you  won't  be  cross 
at  this.) 

Speaking  of  a  Scripps-Booth  motor,  and  speak- 
ing of  motors  in  general  (for  I  believe  you're 
interested  in  them),  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
the  car  in  which  we  dashed  away  from  Ravenna. 
Up  at  Salso,  a  beautiful  white  car  was  offered 
me  for  frs.  600  (the  rent  of  it,  I  mean),  to  take 
me  from  Salso  to  Florence.  Well,  of  course, 
I  didn't  take  it.  I  hugged  the  temptation,  com- 
muned with  it,  went  down  and  gazed  at  the  car 
.  .  .  and  came  back  and  went  by  train! 

But  at  Ravenna,  the  proprietor  of  the  "Ritz- 
Carlton"  (  I)  there,  offered  me  for  the  sum  of 
frs. 20  a  motor  going  back  anyway  from  Ravenna 
to  Rimini.  I  fell  to  this,  and  when  it  heaved  up 
before  the  door  the  following  morning,  it  turned 


MISS  B.  S.  ANDREWS 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         283 

out  to  be  a  taxicab.  In  this  object,  only  a  ve- 
hicle at  all  because  it  had  four  wheels,  we  rolled 
out  into  the  rain  and  away  from  Silent  Ravenna. 

In  front  of  an  old  church  some  five  or  six 
miles  out,  I  discovered  that  I  had  left  my  Briggs 
umbrella  at  the  hotel.  Just  why  I  should  have 
tried  to  retrieve  this  umbrella  more  than  the 
hundreds  I  have  lost  in  my  life,  I  don't  know; 
but  the  car  went  back  whilst  we  "did"  the  church. 
That's  about  all  the  swift  rolling  that  darned 
car  did  for  the  rest  of  the  day! 

Rimini,  as  the  crow  flies,  or  as  the  donkeys 
go,  or  as  the  bicycles  glide,  is  about  an  hour's 
run  from  Ravenna.  It's  a  mere  nothing  at  all  of 
a  trip.  How  long  do  you  think  it  took  us  in  our 
car,  in  the  rain?  Just  five  hours  I  I  don't  know 
what  blew  up  or  blew  out,  not  being  an  automo- 
bilist.  A  car  can  do  almost  anything  and  fool 
me;  but  this  one  did  nothing.  After  we'd  been 
crawling  along  for  a  few  minutes,  it  stopped.  We 
started  out  with  two  men  "on  the  box,"  and  then 
we  lost  one  of  them,  who  went  off  somewhere  for 
something,  and  we  sat  there  and  enjoyed  Italy 
for  hours. 

.  .  .  Little  Angelo  was  five.  He  came  and 
stood  by  the  roadside,  in  his  home-made  trousers 
that  reached  below  his  knees,  with  his  big,  beau- 
tiful eyes  fastened  upon  us,  and  his  whole  little 
figure  the  embodiment  of  childhood's  dream.  He 
was  grace  and  charm  personified. 

There  were  other  little  children.  One  little 
bare-foot  chap,  under  a  sea-green  cotton  umbrella, 
carried  a  bottle  of  milk  for  which  the  crying  baby 


284  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

waited  an  hour  whilst  the  little  messenger  dreamed 
with  Angelo  by  the  wayside. 

We  extracted  from  Angelo  that  he  was  going 
to  visit  his  grandmother — like  Little  Red  Riding 
Hood — and  finally,  munching  a  bit  of  chocolate 
that  we  gave  him,  he  trudged  away  in  the  rain 
toward  "Grandmother's"  house.  Later,  when  the 
motor  decided  to  get  a  move  on  It,  we  found  him 
again,  a  little  further  along  the  road;  and  I  wish 
with  all  my  heart  you  could  have  seen  that  group. 
Little  Angelo  at  home,  with  a  furry  horse-collar 
over  his  shoulder,  carrying  it  somewhere;  his  un- 
cle by  his  side — the  most  superb-looking  young 
man  you  ever  saw,  a  wound  in  his  neck,  and  his 
arm  just  getting  over  paralysis,  back  from  the 
front  on  sick  leave:  and  standing  in  the  court- 
yard, her  arms  white  with  the  flour  she  had  been 
making  Into  bread,  a  white  handkerchief  around 
her  lovely  head,  Angelo's  aunt — a  beauty,  a  rav- 
ing beauty  I  And  then  all  the  picturesqueness  of 
that  country  yard;  the  yellow  corn  spread  upon 
the  ground,  the  golden  pumpkins  on  the  roof; 
and  coming  down  the  road  towards  the  farm,  a 
brilliantly  painted  cart — a  cart  painted  with  bright 
flowers,  crimson  and  blue — drawn  by  snow-white 
oxen  with  horns  over  a  yard  long  each.  You 
never  in  your  life  saw  anything  so  picturesque 
and  so  enchanting. 

Then  we  left  them.  Good-bye,  little  Angelo, 
for  ever!  .  .  . 

It  wasn't  long  to  me,  any  of  that  five  hours; 
for,  one  after  another,  such  lovely,  lovely  sights 
on  every  side  to  see,  and  through  all  the  air  such 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         285 

heavenly  smells  of  broom  and  thyme  and  walnut; 
and  high  upon  the  umber  hills,  strongholds  of 
robber  barons  of  the  Middle  Ages;  and  It  was 
enchanting  to  Imagine  that  on  this  landscape  Fran- 
cesca  of  Ravenna  dreamed  from  the  stone  win- 
dow of  her  palazzo. 

Whatever  charm  Rimini  may  have  had,  Fran- 
cesca  must  have  given  to  it,  those  centuries  ago. 
There  Is  little  left  of  old  Rimini  now — a  frag- 
ment of  a  city  wall,  its  brown  ruin  facing  the 
sea;  a  fragment  of  a  gloomy,  forbidding  castle,  to 
whose  tragic  walls  Paolo  brought  her.  There's 
little  left  of  Rimini ;  and  yet,  even  now,  the  thrill 
and  the  passion  seems  to  linger  still.  The  morbid 
marvel  of  her  love  story  makes  the  very  air  quiver, 
makes  the  place  aflame  still.  I  shall  never  for- 
get with  what  intense  feeling  I  read  Dante,  three 
years  ago,  with  Casablanca  In  my  little  study.  I 
remembered  It  here  at  Rimini  so  clearly. 

No  one  knows  where  Francesca's  tomb  Is,  or 
where  her  body  lies.  It  is  as  though  her  sepulchre 
were  In  the  wonderful  verses  that  she  Inspired, 
In  the  hearts  of  all  lovers.  .  .  . 

The  following  morning,  I  fell  to  another  mo- 
tor temptation  and  came  150  miles  from  Rimini 
to  Florence  over  the  Apennines,  over  the  very 
crests  of  the  hills,  past  Vallombrosa,  where  the 
wind  of  late  September  blew  away  leaves  like  the 
ghosts  of  dreams;  down  here  to  Florence,  to  the 
very  place  where,  five  years  ago,  I  came  with  Vio- 
let and  Mother.  .  .  . 

I  shall  forget  many  things  that  I  have  seen,  but 
I  shall  never  forget  the  message  of  Silent  Raven- 


286  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

na,  or  the  emotion  of  Rimini,  where  the  elusive 
memory  of  Francesca  seemed  to  palpitate  before 
me  like  a  flame.  I  could  seem  to  see  her  steal 
out  of  that  old  gate  and  slip  down  to  the  sea  and 
meet  her  lover  there — the  boy  forbidden  to  her 
by  law  and  whom  her  heart  and  senses  so  adored. 
Poor  little  mediaeval  children,  so  like  the  lovers  of 
to-day,  so  unchanged  is  love!  Drifting  shadows 
In  Purgatory,  blown  thither  by  the  wind  of  pas- 
sion If  you  like,  but  nevertheless  immortal  and 
eternal  through  their  love. 

As  I  stood  there  In  Rimini,  that  last  night  in 
the  War  Zone,  the  green-blue  lamps  below  giving 
their  pallid  light  and  the  heavens  strewn  thick 
with  brilliant  stars  above,  all  the  present  faded 
away,  and  I  assure  you  that  I  could  see  as  clearly 
as  though  it  were  before  me  the  red-brown  palace 
of  the  Malatesta  and  the  Inner  room  with  Its 
scant  and  meagre  furnishing,  and  I  could  see  the 
young  figures  bending  over  the  story  of  Launce- 
lot  and  Guinevere.  .  .  . 

When  you  receive  this  letter,  you  will  be  do- 
ing the  California  exposition  on  the  shores  of 
the  Western  sea,  and  all  our  Old  World  stories 
will  seem  to  you  like  the  dust  off  some  old  book 
that  you  shake  away  as  you  take  the  volume 
down. 

With  best  love. 

As  ever, 

M. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         287 
To  Miss  Mary  Lyon,  Morris  town,  New  Jersey. 

Florence,  October  ist,  191 5. 

My  dear  Mary, 

You  say  that  you  know  It's  useless  to  ask  me 
to  write  you  a  line.     Here  are  several! 

How  long  ago  it  seems  from  to-day  way  back 
into  that  evening  when  I  disgraced  you  at  school ! 
Do  you  remember  how,  in  the  middle  of  the  piece 
I  was  playing  before  the  Faculty  and  the  as- 
sembled schoolmates,  I  smashed  my  hands  down 
on  the  piano  and  jumped  up  and  ran  out  of  the 
room  because  I  forgot,  and  was  embarrassed? 
How  ashamed  you  were  of  me,  how  distressed, 
and  what  mauvais  quarts  d!heiire  I  gave  you  and 
my  teachers  at  school !  I  never  shall  forget  Miss 
Dana  telling  me,  my  last  year  in  school,  what  a 
bitter  disappointment  I  was  to  the  faculty,  and 
how  they  had  hoped  to  make  something  out  of 
me  and  had  failed.  Well,  that's  very  long  ago, 
isn't  it,  dear,  dear  old  friend? 

I  am  glad  you  liked  "Big  Tremaine."  Thank 
you  so  much  for  telling  me  this.  Nothing  comes 
to  me  as  a  greater  surprise  than  to  discover  that 
any  one  reads  my  books.  I  always  know  why 
I  write  them:  there  are  two  or  three  reasons  for 
that.  The  first  is  because  I  can't  help  it;  the 
second  is  because  I  need  money;  and — that's 
enough,  isn't  it?  But  the  reason  why  any  of  them 
should  be  read  I  have  never  yet  discovered.  *'Big 
Tremaine"  has  gone  through  three  editions  in 
England,  and  considering  the  war,  that's  a  very 
good  record. 


288  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Last  night,  I  staggered  Into  this  little  resting- 
place  like  a  drunken  sailor  after  a  long  voyage, 
intoxicated  by  the  very  air  of  an  eight  hours* 
motor  trip  from  Rimini  to  Florence.  These 
words  perhaps  mean  nothing  to  you,  my  dear; 
but  you  can't  imagine  how  divinely  beautiful  the 
reality  was.  It  was  very  hard,  in  that  mid-coun- 
try, to  believe  that  anything  later  than  the  six- 
teenth and  seventeenth  centuries  was  going  on 
beyond.  As  for  fighting  lines  and  modern  war- 
fare, one  forgot  it  all.  When  you  see  in  front 
of  a  pink  stucco  house  a  little  old  woman  bending 
over  her  distaff  and  fingering  the  snowy  yarn; 
when  you  see  a  farmyard,  with  the  women  spin- 
ning the  flax;  you  forget  about  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury; and  every  now  and  then  it  is  such  a  delicious 
and  restful  thing  to  do. 

You  say  that  you  think  of  me  as  nursing  the 
wounded  soldiers.  My  dear,  I  am  not  doing  that, 
nor  have  I  been  for  a  long  time.  I  am  taking 
a  little  excursion  Into  the  peaceful  parts  of  the 
war  countries,  and  It  has  been  delightful  in  the 
extreme. 

When  I  come  to  America  next  time,  I  shall 
surely  see  you.  As  you  look  back  with  me,  my 
dear  Mary,  to  the  day  when  I  first  came  to  school, 
and  chose  you  from  all  the  teachers,  as  you  sat 
there  dignified  and  charming  In  your  black  and 
white  check  suit,  and  decided  that  you  should  be 
my  mentor  and  my  consoler — as  you  look  back 
with  me,  my  dear,  and  remember  how  I  used  to 
write  verses  in  my  arithmetic  because  I  couldn't 
do  the  problems,  and  how  I  used  to  write  stories 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         289 

on  my  music-book  because  I  couldn't  play  the 
scales ;  when  you  remember  that  since  then  I  have 
written  twenty-five  books — all  bad,  of  course,  but 
still  It  means  a  lot  of  exercise — you  don't  feel 
I've  been  such  a  disappointment  to  your  part  of 
the  faculty,  I  know!  And  I  am  perfectly  sure, 
dear  Mary,  that  you  were  not  at  that  faculty 
meeting  when  they  brooded  upon  the  demerits  of 
the  unsuccessful  scholar. 

I  wasn't  more  than  fifteen  that  first  night  when 
I  came  to  Morristown,  unexpectedly,  to  a  school 
too  full  to  take  in  a  rank  outsider.  Still  they 
admitted  me,  and  I  slept  in  the  trunk-room;  and 
you  were  kind  to  me,  I  have  never  forgotten  it. 
Miss  Dana,  the  principal,  took  me  to  her  study 
and  looked  me  over,  and  fastening  her  intelli- 
gent eyes  on  me,  frightened  me  to  death. 

She  often  told  me  since,  that  she  asked  me 
casually,  as  she  asked  all  the  girls,  *'Is  there  any 
special  branch  of  study  you'd  like  to  follow?"  and 
that  I  answered  jauntily,  "Literature — I  am  going 
to  be  a  novelist" — just  as  one  might  elect  to  be  a 
baker  or  a  candlestick  maker. 

Please  write  me  and  tell  me  what  you  are 
doing,  and  believe  me,  as  ever, 

Your  affectionate  pupil, 

Marie  Van  Vorst. 

To  the  Marquise  de  Sers,  Paris. 

Florence,  October  4th,   1915. 

Dear  Friend, 

I  was  so  glad  to  have  good  news  from  the  wan- 
derers— Bessie  and  Robert.     I  understand  they 


290  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

will  not  be  back  before  Christmas.  It  seems  hor- 
ribly long  to  wait  to  see  them.  When  they  started, 
I  feared  that  the  Germans  would  be  in  Petro- 
grad  before  the  Le  Roux;  now  I  believe  that  they 
will  never  get  there  at  all — I  mean  the  Germans. 

Our  hearts  are  full  of  gratitude  for  the  won- 
derful victories  of  France  and  England,  and  I 
hope  that  this  good  news  will  meet  Robert  and 
Bessie  in  Russia.  I  have  a  little  letter  from  him, 
in  which  he  says : 

"Thank  you  for  sending  me  the  news  that  the 
Croix  de  Guerre  has  been  placed  on  the  grave 
of  my  beloved  son.  On  his  dying  bed,  he  asked 
me:  'Do  you  think  they  will  know  that  I  died 
well  and  bravely?  Father,  do  you  think  they 
will  give  me  the  Cross?'  Then,  I  could  not  an- 
swer him.     Now  he  knows.  .  .  .'' 

All  these  days  must  be  so  full  of  terrible  souve- 
nirs to  Robert.  It  will  take  him  many  and  many 
a  journey,  and  many  and  many  a  new  scene,  to 
blot  out  from  before  his  eyes  the  pictures  of  the 
hospital  at  Toul. 

Ever  devotedly  yours, 

M.  V. 

From  an  English  soldier  in  the  trenches,  to  Ray 
Webb,  my  maid. 

Extract 

"...  As  I  write  in  my  little  dug-out — only 
a  hole  scooped  out  of  the  earth  like  a  rabbit  hole 
— the  enemy  is  continually  sniping  at  us.     They 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         291 

have  trained  men,  good  shots,  who  do  nothing 
else  but  wait  at  loopholes  In  their  trenches,  wait- 
ing for  us  to  show  our  heads  above  the  parapet 
of  our  trench.  They  sometimes  miss  us,  luckily. 
...  It  is  marvellous  how  daring  our  fellows 
gQt,  Although  we  are  so  near  the  Germans — 
only  150  yards — there  are  some  partridges  be- 
tween us  and  an  occasional  rabbit;  so  during  the 
day  we  try  to  shoot  them,  and  we  crawl  out  after 
dark  to  get  them. 

''Last  week  I  was  out  early  one  morning  look- 
ing for  fruit,  and  I  found  a  pear-tree.  I  was 
just  standing  up  to  get  some  when  crack  goes  a 
bullet  just  over  my  head.  I  fell  flat  and,  of  course, 
had  to  crawl  back  to  our  trenches  without  any 
pears.  I  managed  it  next  morning,  and  had 
stewed  pears  and  blackberries  for  breakfast. 
What  a  mixture,  eh?  In  the  trenches,  we  are 
not  allowed  to  make  fires,  because  of  the  smoke 
showing;  but  'Tommy*  must  have  his  tea,  and  he 
will  always  manage  it.  We  get  down  In  our  lit- 
tle holes  In  the  earth,  and  we  utilise  candle  grease, 
vaseline,  boot  grease,  rifle  oil;  all  these  things, 
with  a  little  rag,  will  burn,  and  over  this  we  cook 
and  make  our  tea.  'Necessity  is  the  mother  of 
invention  I* 

"The  greatest  objection  to  the  dug-outs  is  that 
they  are  swarming  with  vermin.  Rats,  mice,  bee- 
tles, and  a  host  of  other  objectionable  things  are 
always  there,  and  we  cannot  get  rid  of  them. 

"A  most  interesting  sight  is  to  see  an  aero- 
plane being  shelled;  but  of  course  you  have  seen 
that  yourself.     It  must  be  exciting  for  the  aero- 


292  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

naut,  but  they  fly  calmly  on  and  seem  to  take  no 
notice.  I  have  only  seen  two  brought  down,  fall- 
ing like  birds  with  broken  wings. 

"It  tries  our  nerve  here  sometimes,  under  shell 
fire.  Sometimes  when  one  is  walking  along  the 
trench,  a  shell  strikes  the  parapet,  almost  bury- 
ing us;  but  if  no  one  is  hurt  it's  usually  treated 
as  a  joke.  I  believe  I  told  you  my  chum  and 
I  were  nearly  caught  one  day  on  Hill  60,  when 
a  huge  shell  landed  a  few  feet  from  us. 

*'If  you  should  ever  see  me  on  leave,  you 
must  be  prepared  to  see  a  very  rough  specimen  of 
a  soldier.  Water  is  scarce  here,  and  it  often 
means  going  for  days  without  a  wash  or  a  shave. 
I  have  enclosed  a  wee  sketch  of  myself  as  I  ap- 
peared last  week,   and  honestly,  it  flatters  me! 

"It  is  surprising  how  cheerful  and  confident 
we  are.  Of  course  we  want  to  get  home,  we  are 
often  hungry,  we  are  dirty,  and  most  uncomfort- 
able, and  we  grumble;  but  we  are  going  to  win, 
all  the  time. 

"That  German  sniper  keeps  splashing  the  dirt 
over  me  as  I  write.  I  have  been  creeping  round 
this  morning  trying  to  get  a  partridge,  but  no 
luck.  I  had  decided  to  cook  it  *en  casserole,'  but 
I  have  not  got  it  yet. 

"I  must  tell  you  a  most  amusing  thing  that 
happened  last  week.  We  were  in  a  small  village 
and  our  fellows  are  very  French.  Two  of  them 
wanted  some  milk,  so  went  to  an  old  lady  and 
said:  'Dooley'  (du  lait) — 'Compree  dooley.' 
Well,  the  old  lady  did  not  'compree.'  After  a 
lot  of  gesticulation  and  talking,   the  old  lady 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         293 

brightened  up  and  said:  'Ah,  oui;  je  comprends!' 
Away  she  goes  and  comes  back  beaming  and 
carrying  six  onions.  To  their  credit  be  it  said, 
they  paid  for  the  onions  and  came  away.  An- 
other bought  a  tin  of  mushrooms,  thinking  he  had 
apricots!     It  is  amusing. 

*'If  one  of  our  fellows  gets  wounded,  he  is  im- 
mediately classed  as  a  'lucky  bounder.*  Those 
who  get  home  do  certainly  seem  to  have  a  good 
time  of  it,  but  I  would  like  to  get  through  it  all 
safe. 

"The  Germans  are  now  using  great  bombs 
which  they  try  to  drop  in  our  trenches.  The. 
explosion  is  awful — fairly  shakes  the  place.  We 
call  it  the  'sausage.'  'Here  comes  another  sau- 
sage!' is  a  common  cry.  'Whiz-bangs'  are  another 
type,  fired  from  close  range.  The  moment  you 
hear  the  'whiz,'  they  explode  'bang'  near  the 
trench.  We  can  hear  shells  from  the  big  long- 
range  guns  screaming  through  the  air  all  the 
time.  .  .  ." 


To  Master  Bobby  Cromwell,  Bernardsville,  N,  J, 

Florence,  October  6th,    191 5. 

My  dear  Bobby, 

How  would  you  like  to  be  a  Montenegrin,  sup- 
posing you  could  not  be  a  Yankee?  They're  the 
pluckiest  people  in  the  world.  I  wonder  if  you 
realise  that  after  Serbia  was  attacked  last  year 
by  Austria,  this  little  mountain  race  of  war-like 
shepherds,  in  the  face  of  all  Europe,  declared  war 
on  Austria,  because  their  friend  Serbia  was  at- 


294  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

tacked?  There's  a  saying  that  ''To  be  born  in 
Montenegro  is  to  be  born  without  fear."  Not 
bad,  that;  eh? 

How  would  you  like  to  be  a  San  Marinian? 
(Always  supposing  you  could  not  live  in  New 
Jersey!)  In  this  case,  we  can  avoid  any  asper- 
sions you  want  to  cast  upon  kings  and  queens,  and 
Czars  and  so  forth;  for  San  Marino  is  a  repub- 
lic. High  up  on  a  mountain  in  the  province  of 
Emilia,  is  tiny,  beautiful,  ancient  San  Marino.  It's 
quaint,  and  it's  mediaeval — or  earlier  still.  (I 
won't  bore  you  by  giving  you  any  date :  you  have 
enough  of  them  at  school,  and  nobody  likes  them.) 
It's  brown  and  it's  golden,  and  in  the  distance, 
from  its  piazza,  you  can  see  the  Adriatic  and 
Rimini. 

When  Italy  joined  in  the  war,  little  San  Marino 
— about  two  miles  long,  and  with  at  least  half  a 
dozen  people,  in  the  population — hesitated  about 
declaring  war  upon  Austria.  (Brave  as  a  lion!) 
Oh,  San  Marino's  "all  wool,"  if  it's  only  "a  yard 
wide" !  Finally,  being  as  discreet  as  it  is  valor- 
ous, the  little  republic  decided  to  maintain  what 
she  called  a  Benevolent  Neutrality.  (Bobby,  my 
boy,  that's  what  I  hope  you're  doing  in  the 
U.S.A.) 

Well,  just  think  of  what  little  San  Marino  has 
done,  up  there  on  its  copper-coloured  hill,  with 
Italy  at  its  feet.  Whenever  an  Italian  resident 
of  San  Marino  was  called  to  serve  his  country, 
called  to  the  colours,  the  good  little  republic  paid 
his  salary  whilst  he  was  away.  They  raised  forty 
thousand  francs  for  the  national  fund  for  the 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         295 

soldiers;  they  raised  a  lot  of  money  for  the  Red 
Cross;  there's  a  feminine  league  and  a  masculine 
league  up  there  to  help  Italy;  and  when  charming 
little  Rimini  was  bombarded  like  fury  by  the  Aus- 
trian warships — a  tower  blown  off  a  church,  a 
roof  blown  off,  a  house  blown  down  here  and 
there — benevolent  little  San  Marino  sent  down 
to  Rimini  and  fetched  up  all  the  little  orphans 
from  the  schools  and  brought  them  all  up  to  the 
hills  to  take  care  of  them. 

Bobby,  I  wish  you  could  see  those  little  or- 
phans from  the  foundling  asylums  of  Rimini,  in 
snow-white  dresses,  with  white  hats  and  bare  legs, 
black  eyes  and  dark  curls.  I  tell  you  there  are 
some  little  rosebuds  and  peaches  and  fine  little 
kids  among  them — well  worth  picking  them  up 
out  of  Rimini  and  saving  them  from  the  Austrian 
bombs.  You  see,  the  Austrians  don't  care  much 
what  they  hit — not  that  they're  good  shots,  but 
they  don't  care.  They'd  just  as  soon  smash  a 
priceless  church  to  bits  as  rip  up  a  beer  saloon. 
They  don't  care!  Beer  and  stained  glass  and 
rare  old  pictures  and  sausages  and  cheese  are 
all  alike  to  the  Austrians  and  Germans.  If  San 
Marino  is  benevolently  neutral,  they  are  malevo- 
lently impartial. 

Well,  we've  got  something  better  to  talk  about, 
thank  Heaven!  than  the  Austrians  and  Germans. 

When  Italy  declared  war,  San  Marino  quickly 
rushed  down  to  the  telegraph  office  and  hurried 
off  a  telegram  to  the  King,  saying:  "Viva 
ritalia,"  "Long  live  the  King!"  and  all  sorts  of 
benevolently  t/wneutral  things. 


296  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Don't  you  like  it,  Bobby? 

There's  nothing  the  matter  with  San  Marino, 
IS  there? 

Well,  New  Jersey's  a  pretty  nice  place,  too. 
I  hope  it  is  benevolently  neutral.  .  .  . 

My  dear  boy,  I  send  you  many,  many  greet- 
ings from  the  countries  at  war.  1  wish  you  could 
see  the  splendid  Italian  soldiers.  I  wish  you 
could  see  the  splendid  English  Tommies.  I  wish 
you  could  see  the  splendid  "poilus,"  as  they  call 
the  Frenchmen  who  have  lived  in  the  trenches  for 
over  a  year. 

Some  day,  perhaps,  Bobby,  you'll  come  over 
to  see  your  godmother,  at  the  right  time;  and 
we'll  stand  together  on  the  Champs  Elysees  and 
see  the  tide  of  that  victorious  army — French  and 
English — come  marching  home. 
Best  love 
from 

Your  Godmother. 


The  Marquise  de  Sers,  Paris. 

Frascati,  Rome,  Oct.   15th,   191 5. 

Dear  Friend, 

Four  months  ago  I  was  enjoying  American  hos- 
pitality at  the  Guthries  in  New  York,  and  taking 
part,  there  in  America,  in  the  discussions  about 
America's  position  regarding  the  Great  War. 

I  remember  that  one  evening  fourteen  of  us 
sat,  and  with  the  exception  of  four  people,  every 
one  of  us  was  for  war.  That  was  four  months 
ago,  and  the  United  States  has  kept  out  of  the 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         297 

conflict!  Over  here  it  rather  amuses  us  to  think 
that  the  U.  S.  A.  fancies  that  the  reason  that  the 
Germans  haven't  submarined  every  passenger  boat 
that  has  put  out  to  sea  is  as  a  personal  favour 
to  the  U.  S.  You  see,  we  over  here  have  not 
been  allowed  to  whisper  that  it  is  England — 
great,  wonderful,  silent,  strong,  effective  En^ 
land — that  has  smashed  up  the  submarine  men- 
ace. Even  so  early  as  the  first  of  July,  a  few 
people  who  heard  a  few  things  that  they  were 
not  meant  to  hear  knew  pretty  well  what  Eng- 
land was  able  to  do  regarding  the  submarines; 
and  you  can't  be  surprised  if  it  has  amused 
us  a  little  bit.  Like  a  great,  mighty  hand, 
powerful  and  terribly  impressive,  England  has 
closed  down  over  the  ships  that  meant  havoc  to 
neutrals  as  well  as  to  those  at  war. 

I  expect  that  this  will  all  be  cut  out  by  the 
censor,  but  I  am  hoping  to  pass  it.  I  hope  so, 
for  I  do  with  all  my  heart  wish  that  full  justice 
should  be  done  to  England. 

The  other  night,  when  I  arrived  at  the  Grand 
Hotel  from  Florence,  on  my  way  here,  I  hap- 
pened to  hear  of  Lady  ,  who  had  just  ar- 
rived from  England  en  route  for  the  Darda- 
nelles, where  she  was  going  to  disinter  the  body 
of  her  favourite  son,  a  boy  of  eighteen.  It  seemed 
so  pathetic  to  me  to  realise  that  lonely  woman's 
presence  in  that  cold,  deserted  hotel,  the  errand 
and  all  it  meant  was  so  tragic  and  so  pathetic, 
that  I  couldn't  resist  the  impulse  to  write  her 
a  note  and  tell  her  that  there  was  a  human  heart 
beating  in  the  place  for  her  and  that  I  felt  her 


298  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

grief.  I  also  left  her,  when  I  left,  the  flowers 
that  had  made  my  rooms  sweet  for  the  few  hours 
that  I  passed  there.  Out  here  In  FrascatI,  this 
letter  came  to  me,  my  dear  friend,  and  I  think 
you  win  be  as  touched  as  I  was  by  its  tragic 
pathos : 

''I  can't  tell  you  how  touched  I  was  with  your 
sweet  letter  and  lovely  flowers.  It  has  said  much 
to  me.  We  are  waiting  here  for  a  permit  to 
bring  back  his  precious  body.  He  was  just  eigh- 
teen and  sixteen  days  and  the  Idol  of  my  heart. 
He  landed  all  the  troops  at  the  Dardanelles  and 
carried  wounded  back  through  heavy  fire,  and 
now  he  has  'died.'  But  he  must  have  done  some- 
thing we  don't  know  about  yet;  otherwise  the  King 
and  Queen  would  not  have  sent  us  a  telegram 
of  sympathy,  which  they  did  last  Wednesday. 

"He  was  just  my  favourite  child  and  every- 
thing to  me — so  full  of  life  and  fun  and  mis- 
chief. Oh,  but  it's  a  cruel  war  I  If  he  had  been 
killed.  It  would  have  been  bad  enough,  but  this 
seems  worse.  It's  a  war  between  God  and  the 
Devil,  and  I  think  the  Devil  Is  winning  again. 

"All  my  thanks  for  your  kind  sympathy  and 
lovely  flowers. 

"Yours,  etc." 

To  be  a  Frenchwoman  or  an  Englishwoman 
and  bear  many  sons  is  to-day  just  to  number  your- 
self among  the  women  with  aching  hearts. 

I  had  a  note  from  my  friends  in  Limoges, 
whose   ambulances   are   all   full  to   overflowing. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         299 

This  last  French  victory  has  crowded  Paris  with 
wounded.  The  American  Ambulance  has  610  pa- 
tients! But  since  you  are  interested  in  the  war, 
here  is  Mrs.  Munroe's  last  letter  to  me.  It 
speaks  for  itself: 

"In  answer  to  your  questions  about  Miss  Da- 
vies,  she  is  a  mighty  brave  woman.  She  has 
gone  to  London  .  .  .  and  I  have  no  photograph' 
of  her  and  am  not  at  liberty  to  give  one  with- 
out her  permission.  Miss  Davies  has  been  with 
us  a  long  time.  She  was  neither  a  nurse  nor  an 
auxiliary,  but  worked  in  the  pathological  service, 
first  with  Dr.  Jaldon  and  then  with  Dr.  Taylor. 
The  latter  knew  nothing  of  her  intention  to  inocu- 
late herself  with  this  terrible  gas  gangrene.  When 
it  had  declared  itself,  she  sent  for  him.  He  was 
in  a  terrible  state  of  anxiety,  gave  her  at  once 
his  treatment,  and  saved  her.  It  was  a  very 
plucky  thing  to  do.  He  tells  me  her  case  is  not 
an  absolute  proof,  for  of  course  she  was  a  clean 
case,  not  an  infected  one;  but  all  the  same,  his 
discovery  is  a  tremendous  aid  to  that  deadly 
poison.  She  is  quite  well  now.  I  had  a  letter 
from  her  and  I  think  she  will  come  back  to  us 
again  before  long.  We  are  so  busy  we  have  not 
a  moment  to  breathe.  This  last  splendid  attack 
and  advance  has  cost  us  dear,  and  brought  in 
many  badly  wounded.  We  have  put  in  extra 
beds,  and  the  other  night  we  had  to  put  up  cots 
in  every  corner,  having  609  patients.  We  are 
evacuating  and  receiving  new  wounded  day  and 
night— some  such  awful  cases  it  makes  one  sick. 
If  only  we  could  annihilate  those  brutes  1    I  have 


300  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

no  news  of  my  boy  since  two  weeks.  What  hard 
and  anxious  times!  Anne  Vanderbilt  Is  sailing 
on  October  30th.  That  Is  my  one  joyful  piece  of 
news.  .  .  .  Hope  to  see  you  soon." 

To-morrow  I  am  going  to  spend  Sunday  at  the 
American  Embassy  with  Mrs.  Page.  She  tells 
me  that  she  has  just  received  from  Washington 
for  the  Italian  soldiers,  through  Miss  Borden, 
frs.4000  worth  of  flannel  for  night  shirts  and  15,- 

000  yards  of  cotton  cloth.  A  pretty  generous 
gift,  Isn't  It?  She  says  that  the  gifts  to  Italy 
from  America  which  pass  through  her  hands  come 
pouring  in  all  the  time  and  that  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  dispense  such  ready  and  such  constant  gener- 
osity. 

America  seems  very,  very  far  away.  That  dan- 
gerous sea  lies  between  us,  and  though — thanks 
to  England — the  horror  Is  minimised,  It  still  lies 
there  in  mine  and  periscope.  I  had  one  terrible 
crossing  and  I  assure  you  that  I  dread  another; 
and  yet,  I  have  so  many  Interests  there  that  call 
me — my  book,  my  cinematograph  rights,  and  the 
great,  big,  magnetic  and  human  appeal  of  those 

1  so  deeply  love.  If  one. only  had  half  a  dozen 
lives  and  could  spend  them  as  one  would!  Do 
you  know,  I'm  almost  Inclined  to  say  that  I'd 
spend  five  and  a  half  of  them  In  Italy!  That's 
^'golng  some,"  Isn't  It?  It  looks  very  decided, 
for  me.  But  the  other  half  I'd  spend  in  New 
York,  at  the  top  of  some  high  building,  around 
the  Fifties,  with  all  that  original,  crude,  brilHant 
outline  of  the  lighted  mountains  of  the  city  houses. 
The  home  skies  seem  very  lovely  to  me  some- 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         301 

times;  and  just  now  I  am  turning  my  back  on 
Italy  and  going  back  to  France. 

To-night,  as  I  look  out  of  my  windows  here, 
the  Roman  Campagna  stretches  away,  in  a  floor 
as  level  as  the  sea  floor,  clear  to  the  sea.  Within 
my  vision,  to  the  left,  is  the  narrow  silver  band 
where  the  Mediterranean  meets  the  Campagna; 
and  there  is  a  little  indentation  in  the  coast  at 
Fumicino,  where  the  yellow  Tiber  pours  its  gold 
into  that  shining  silver  sea.  It's  divine.  I  know 
the  course  of  that  river  well,  you  know,  as  I  saw 
It  rise  in  the  Apennines,  up  under  the  snows,  and 
mile  by  mile  followed  it  down  here  to  its  mouth. 

But  even  more  beautiful  than  that  vision  of 
silver  water  is  the  luminous  mist,  like  a  cloud, 
just  there  upon  the  landscape  where  Rome  is — 
so  bright  itself  that  its  reflection  cast  up  against 
the  sky  is  almost  like  moonshine.  This  Cam- 
pagna, in  the  changing  lights — brown,  blue,  red- 
dish, golden — baffles  any  words  I  have  to  give  to 
you  its  charm. 

You  know  that  all  around  Frascati  are  cele- 
brated villas  where,  as  I  saw  to-day,  over  the 
rocks,  never  failing,  never  ceasing,  cascades  of 
water  pour  down  into  the  basins  of  fountains  that 
were  built  to  hold  them  seven  and  eight  hundred 
years  ago.  To-day,  as  I  stood  and  looked  down 
into  the  gathered  waters  of  these  basins,  I  thought 
I  had  never  seen  anything  more  marvellous  in 
my  life.  These  waters  are  a  pale  peacock  blue, 
because  the  marble  is  so  lined  with  ancient  moss. 

People  have  written  about  Italian  villas  for 
a  hundred  years.     Each  writer  tells  you  of  the 


302  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

things  that  appeal  to  his  special  sense.  Gardens 
without  end  have  been  described  without  ceasing : 
let  me  speak  to  you  only  of  the  fountains,  the 
mellow  stones  that  hold  them — pink,  orange,  pale 
yellow;  bring  to  your  sense  of  hearing  the  music 
of  these  falling  waters,  whose  messages  to  man- 
kind have  been  for  eight  hundred  years  the  same, 
but  according  to  the  ears  that  hear  them  eternally 
new. 

Never,  never,  never  have  I  dreamed  of  any- 
thing so  satisfying  as  Italy.  From  the  Province 
of  Emilia,  where  I  first  began  to  feel  this  per- 
vading, magnetic  charm,  down  through  Bologna, 
Ravenna,  and  Rimini  to  Florence,  where  Tuscany 
completely  enchained  me,  and  here  to  Rome,  the 
charm  has  grown  and  grown. 

I  almost  laid  my  life  down  In  Rome  a  few  years 
ago,  as  you  remember;  and  I  feel  now  as  though 
I  had  found  life  again,  and  with  a  deeper  mean- 
ing. Things  that  have  come  to  me  this  time  in 
Italy  can  never  leave  my  soul  as  desolate,  as 
naked,  as  it  was  before.  Some  of  the  gifts  have 
been  material,  and  some  of  them  spiritual  In- 
deed. 

You  have  always  taken  the  greatest  interest  in 
Gaetano's  motherless  little  child.  She  is  here  un- 
der the  same  roof  with  me  and  Is  now  sleeping 
downstairs  In  her  little  crib — a  rosebud  baby, 
one  of  the  most  charming  little  creatures:  a 
brown-eyed,   golden-haired,   delightful  little  girl. 

As  I  close  my  letter,  there  comes  from  the  dis- 
tance the  subdued  sound  of  a  passing  train.  The 
note  fills  me  with  sadness,  for  It  forecasts  one 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         303 

more  journey — another  of  those  many,  many  voy- 
ages that  I  am  always  taking;  and  this  time  it 
seems  to  me  as  though  I  could  not  go.  .  .  . 

With  love, 

As  ever, 
M.V. 


To  the  Marquise  de  Sers,  Paris. 

Florence,  October  8th,  191 5. 

Dear  Friend, 

I  heard  of  something  last  night  so  touching 
that  I  want  to  tell  you  about  it,  whilst  its  note  is 
still  ringing  in  my  mind. 

An  Italian  foundling — a  poor,  unknown  chap — 
after  a  terrible  battle  from  which  he  had  escaped 
unhurt,  wrote  home  to  Florence — sent  a  letter 
out  into  the  void,  "to  my  unknown  parents.'* 
Father  and  mother  he  had  never  known.  A  de- 
serted child,  brought  up  in  the  charity  schools, 
the  first  time  that  he  really  met  the  world  on 
an  equal  footing  with  others  was  when  he  went 
as  a  soldier. 

His  letter,  with  its  lonely  appeal,  spoke  to  the 
heart  of  a  high-born  Italian  woman — and  they  tell 
me  she  is  a  very  well-known  woman  indeed.  She 
wrote  him  a  letter,  which  was  published  in  the 
papers,  telling  him  that  she  knew  that  he  was  a 
good  man  because  he  did  not  revile  the  parents 
who  had  deserted  him;  that  he  was  no  longer  to 
consider  himself  alone  in  the  world;  that  when 
he  came  back  from  the  front  her  home  would  be 
open  to  him,  and  that  from  henceforth  her  family 


304  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

should  be  his  family,  and  they  were  all  prepared 
to  receive  him  with  open  arms  and  try  to  make 
up  to  him  for  his  past  loneliness  and  unhappiness. 
And  all  this  expressed  In  the  most  tender,  grace- 
ful fashion.  .  .  . 

The  more  I  see  of  Italy,  the  more  I  adore  the 
Italians.  They  have  so  much  heart,  so  much 
cheerfulness  and  gaiety,  so  much  good  humour. 
And  the  way  they  sing!  Every  now  and  then, 
when  a  silence  falls  in  the  streets,  it  Is  broken  by 
some  sudden  singing  voice,  with  a  mellowness  and 
a  sweetness  that  makes  you  thrill. 

Among  the  people  that  Austria  has  dragged 
and  pressed  into  her  thinning  ranks  during  these" 
last  dreadful  weeks  are  the  wandering  gypsy  tribes 
— men  unused  to  war,  of  course;  unused  to  disci- 
pline; free  as  the  air;  and  to  whom  rules  are  Irk- 
some and  unknown.  Many  of  these  poor  things, 
who  had  never  worn  shoes  In  their  lives,  dragged 
off  their  military  boots  and  threw  them  away  and 
went  barefoot  to  the  ranks.  And  one  Romany, 
poor  thing,  longing  for  the  music  of  his  tribe, 
deserted,  and  when  he  was  finally  caught,  con- 
fessed that  he  had  only  gone  back  to  fetch  his 
violin.     Poor,  poor  creatures! 

SIgnor  Gozzini  Is  an  antiquity  dealer.  (Ah, 
you Ve  caught  me,  haven't  you?  Of  course,  I've 
been  Into  some  of  these  fascinating  shops!)  SI- 
gnor Gozzini  Is  In  uniform — grey,  with  a  spotless 
white  collar  and  one  star  on  the  collar  of  his 
tunic.    He  is  all  alone  In  the  curiosity  shop. 

"Scusi,  signora!  Look;  enjoy;  see  the  things 
for  yourself.  ...  I  used  to  think  them  beautiful. 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         305 

IVe  just  come  back  from  the  Alps.  I've  been  up 
there  since  the  war  began.  All  my  other  men  have 
gone.  Now  I  am  back  on  four  days'  leave.  These 
things,"  and  he  made  a  gesture  with  his  graceful 
brown  hand  to  the  Genoese  velvet,  to  the  Vene- 
tian chairs,  to  the  Florentine  and  Roman  treas- 
ures, "seem  very  unreal  now.  I  suppose  they 
have  prices:  I  suppose  they're  part  of  what  I 
used  to  call  my  business.  .  .  .  SIgnora,  I've  seen 
men  die  like  flies;  I've  seen  the  snow  of  the  Alps 
stained  to  red.  I've  heard  my  fellow  soldiers 
cry:  'Viva  I'ltalial'  and  heard  the  sound  stop 
short  before  it  finished.  .  .  .  And  I  find  myself 
down  here." 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  eyes  for  a  moment. 

"I  hear  my  mother  and  sisters  talk  about  the 
little  scandals  of  Florence."  (He  made  another 
gesture.)  "Signora,  don't  think  it  strange  if  I 
say  that  I've  gone  beyond.  .  .  . 

''It's  a  good  thing,"  he  added,  "for  Italy.  It's 
a  good  thing  for  human  souls,  Signora.  Perhaps 
we  will  all  be  poorer  in  our  bank  accounts,  but 
every  country  that  is  fighting  to-day  has  gone  up 
higher.  .  .  ." 

This  was  an  antiquity  dealer  in  a  Florence 
shop! 

With  devoted  love. 

Ever  yours, 

M. 


3o6  WAR  LETTERS  OF 


To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz,  New  York, 

Pension  Constantin,  Florence, 

October  7th,  1915. 

My  dear  Violet, 

Here,  in  this  agreeable  little  pension,  can  you 
imagine  how  I  think  of  you ;  can  you  imagine  how 
easy  it  is  for  me  to  go  back  into  our  mutual 
past  here?  I  seem  to  see  you  everywhere — in  the 
streets,  in  this  little  study,  with  its  quaint,  old- 
fashioned  air.  Here  I  wrote  three  books  in  one 
year,  and  two  of  them  were  successful!  None 
of  them  would  have  been  accomplished  without 
your  companionship,  your  encouragement  and 
your  sweet  presence.  How  grateful  I  am  for  all 
that  unblemished  past!  As  I  look  back  upon  it, 
there  was  not  one  cloud,  from  the  time  you  came 
into  my  life  until  you  left  it.  There  have  been 
many  since — cruel  ones;  but  that  was  all  sun- 
light. 

You  loved  Florence  so  much.  Yesterday  I 
thought  of  you  so  often  and  how  you  would  have 
enjoyed  the  afternoon  that  Ernestine  Ludolf 
gave  me. 

High  up  on  a  far-away  hill — on  one  of  those 
heaven-kissing  hills  that  rise  sharply  above  the 
city — is  an  old  Medici  villa,  sublime  in  its  isola- 
tion, almost  untouched  and  unchanged.  Egisto 
Fabbri  has  bought  it,  and  here  Ernestine  and  he 
have  spent  the  summer,  out  of  the  world. 

Ernestine  sent  her  motor  for  me  early  in  the 
afternoon,  and  it  took  me  to  the  beginning  of  a 
tiny  rocky  road,  going  straight  up  into  the  sheer 


"  ERNESTINE  SENT  HER  MOTOR  FOR  ME  " 


FROM  THE  TERRACE  YOU  LOOK  OVER  MILES  OF  TUSCANY  '■ 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN        307 

hill.  There  the  motor  stopped,  and  what  do  you 
think  waited  at  the  opening  of  the  mountain-road, 
to  carry  me  up  into  the  hills?  A  low  wooden 
sledge,  filled  with  hay  and  drawn  by  two  of  those 
great,  snow-white,  serene  oxen — those  beautiful 
beasts  that  we  have  so  often  admired  and  for 
which  Tuscany  is  famous.  Slowly,  this  primitive 
vehicle  sHd  softly  up  (if  you  can  slide  up)  the 
hill,  through  olive  orchards  and  grape  vineyards, 
until  we  reached  the  summit;  and  there,  in  the 
garden  of  the  villa,  were  the  Contessa  Ludolf  and 
her  brother. 

From  the  terrace,  through  the  arches  of  those 
old  stone  windows,  you  look  out  over  miles  of 
blue  and  purple  Tuscany,  over  far-away  hilltops, 
over  hillsides  where  are  sparsely  scattered  other 
white  and  yellow  and  grey  castles  and  villas. 
There  is  the  veil  of  the  olives  drawn  across  the 
landscape;  there's  the  purple  and  green  of  the 
grape  vines.  But  I'm  not  going  to  describe 
it  for  you.  It's  beyond  words  to  tell.  Miles, 
miles,  miles  out  of  the  world  it  seems;  and  such 
remoteness,  such  silence,  with  its  spirit  of  con- 
templation and  its  atmosphere  of  peace,  I  have 
never  dreamed  of.  The  ilex  and  the  cypresses 
rise  straight  and  black  in  Egisto  Fabbri's  gardens. 

On  the  terrace  we  had  peasant  bread  and  honey 
and  tea;  but  better  than  that,  we  had  a  wonder- 
ful talk,  for  Ernestine's  brother  has  a  delightful 
mind  and  delightful  things  to  say;  and  I  am  sure 
you  can  imagine  what  an  afternoon  it  was. 

You'll  think  it's  frightfully  conceited  of  me 
to  say  that  I  think  we  are  the  only  tourists  in 


3o8  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Italy.  I  assure  you  I  haven't  seen  any  others. 
Just  fancy  the  extraordinary  pleasure  of  being 
in  a  country  like  this  without  any  travellers,  or 
Baedeker-carrying  tourists  to  offend  the  eyes ! 

There  are  two  Austrians  interned  here — an  old 
gentleman  and  lady  who  are  from  the  Trentino, 
and  are  prisoners  in  the  pension  and  its  garden. 
I  dare  say  they  wish  they  were  tourists  I  But 
even  this  little  cosmopolitan  pension  is  full  of 
Italian  officers,  coming  here  to  appreciate  the  good 
food,  and  even  native  Florentines !  The  war, 
with  Its  many  changes,  has  brushed  the  tourist 
fly  brusquely  away. 

This  afternoon,  Ernestine  sent  her  motor  again, 
and  I  went  to  the  Certosa,  where  a  snow-white 
monk  took  me  through — I  might  say — a  deserted 
monastery.  There  are  a  few  of  the  silent  brothers 
left,  but  most  of  them  have  gone  to  the  war. 
Think  of  it  I  Torn  by  their  countries'  summons 
from  that  tranquillity,  from  that  isolation,  from 
that  peace.  .  .  .  Standing  in  the  cloister,  the  Tus- 
can hills  and  valleys  on  one  side,  the  monastery 
gardens  on  the  other,  the  snow-white  brother  said 
to  me:    "Pray  for  peace.     We  pray  for  peace." 

Each  monk  has  a  tiny  little  house.  Seen  from 
a  distance,  these  tiny  little  dwellings  form  a  crene- 
lated wall  around  the  Certosa.  Each  monk  has 
his  cell,  his  study,  a  little  window  where,  on  a 
stone  seat,  he  can  sit  and  meditate,  and  a  little 
garden  to  plant  and  tend.  Here  he  eats  alone, 
the  food  being  passed  In  to  him  through  a  little 
window.     It's  the  Silent  System.     Sundays  and 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         309 

Thursdays  they  speak  together  In  the  garden; 
otherwise — silence. 

There  are  only  twenty  of  these  brothers  left — 
all  old,  for  those  in  whom  the  blood  is  still  young 
have  gone  to  spill  it  on  their  countries'  battlefields. 
Men  to  whom  speech  is  almost  strange,  mingling 
with  the  shouting,  screaming  hordes  on  the  field 
of  battle!  Here  Austrian,  French,  Italian,  Ger- 
man, English — these  brothers  lived  together  in 
a  community  of  Peace,  their  mission  service  and 
prayer;  and  now  they  are  fighting  in  different 
fields,  they  are  enemies,  with  Hate  for  a  common 
cause. 

How  strange ! 

''Have  you  any  news  from  the  monks  who  have 
gone  to  the  war.  Brother?" 

"Three  of  them  have  fallen:  one  Frenchman 
and  two  Austrians." 

"Do  you  know   anything  of  the  war  here?" 

"We  have  a  few  hnes  from  our  brothers  at  the 
front,"  he  said,  with  a  pathetic  gesture  of  those 
unworldly  hands — hands  that  for  thirty-eight 
years  have  known  none  of  the  commerce  of  the 
vulgar  world.  "We  never  read  the  papers,  it  is 
forbidden.  .  .  .  Pray  for  peace.  We  pray  for 
peace.  .  .  ." 

I  came  away  from  the  Certosa  with  a  feeling  of 
its  silence  in  my  soul — a  sense  of  its  sacred  peace. 

More  and  more,  I  am  beginning  to  understand 
why  every  one  who  has  ever  accomplished  any- 
thing really  great  and  truly  beautiful  in  the  past 
has  come  to  Italy — has  lived  here  and  stayed  here 


3IO  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

until  some  of  its  imprint  has  enriched  their 
souls.  .  .  . 

Here  is  a  very  different  picture,  my  dear;  but 
you  who  love  these  touches  and  these  charming 
little  bits  of  life,  will  appreciate  it.  In  this  house 
there  is  an  awfully  pretty  girl,  who  is  studying 
music  for  the  stage.  She  is  a  true  American  and 
comes  from  somewhere  beyond  Chicago.  In 
speaking  of  the  delightful  cleverness,  the  astonish- 
ing, supple,  civilised  character  of  these  people, 
she  said: 

"I  ride  a  great  deal  and  quite  freely  here,  alone. 
The  other  morning,  very  early — about  seven 
o'clock — on  one  of  these  lovely  warm  mornings, 
I  went  out  to  ride  in  the  Cascine.  The  alley  in 
which  I  rode  was  covered  with  falling  leaves.  As 
the  sun  had  just  risen,  bright  and  gold,  I  seemed 
to  ride  right  into  the  golden  light. 

'*A  young  Italian  city  labourer,  with  a  long, 
primitive-looking  broom,  was  sweeping  up  the 
leaves.  I  always  ride  astride,  as  the  custom  of 
my  country  is,  and  I  had  on  a  soft  cowboy  hat. 
As  I  rode  along  like  this,  the  path-sweeper 
stopped  his  work,  and  leaning  on  his  broom, 
looked  me  directly  in  the  eyes,  threw  his  head 
back,  and  began  to  sing  just  one  line — daringly, 
charmingly,  in  a  full,  fine  voice: 

"'Che  ella  mi  creda  libera  e  lontano/* 

The  first  bars  of  Johnson's  solo  in  *The  Girl  of 
the  Golden  West'!" 

Just  think  of  that  quickness  and  cleverness  on 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN    ^     311 

the  part  of  a  common  street  sweeper!     Such  a 
thing  could  not  happen  in  any  other  country  of 
the  world,  I  am  sure. 
With  best  love, 

As  ever, 

M. 

To  Miss  Mary  Carlisle, 

London,  October,  191 5. 

My  Dear  Miss  Carlisle, 

I  have  been  thinking  about  you  a  great  many 
times  this  year.  No  doubt  this  will  come  to 
you  as  something  of  a  surprise,  but,  you  know, 
these  surprises  are  often  the  most  interesting 
things  in  life.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  one  or  two 
questions,  and  I  shall  put  them  to  you  now  in 
this  country,  of  which  you  are  a  native  and  in 
which  I  am  a  stranger. 

Why  don't  you  come  over  to  these  countries  at 
war? 

Why  don't  you  come  over  to  England? 

You  are  an  English  woman.  You  must  love 
with  fervour  and  passion  this  Empire  that  in  such 
a  marvellous  way  is  making  itself  felt  from  one 
end  of  the  world  to  the  other. 

You  belong  to  the  most  merciful,  and  lately 
I  have  thought,  the  most  beautiful  profession 
that  there  Is.  You  are  a  nurse.  For  years  it  has 
been  your  privilege  to  soothe,  to  help  and  to 
heal.  Not  only  are  you  a  nurse,  but  you  are  a 
wonderful  one,  a  woman  on  whom  one  can  rely, 
to  whom  one  can  give  great  charges. 

You  do  not  know  what  I  have  seen  In  the  way 


312  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

of  nursing  these  months  and  months  of  horror 
and  of  agony.  I  have  seen  great  things.  Don't 
for  a  moment  think  that  I  am  judging  you  or 
criticising  you,  or  even  suggesting  to  you;  this  I 
would  have  no  right  to  do.  You  see,  I  am  sim- 
ply talking  to  you  across  three  thousand  miles, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  saying  anything 
to  you  at  all.  In  the  military  hospital  where  I 
have  been  a  nurse  I  have  seen  women  come  from 
America  who  depended  entirely  upon  themselves 
for  their  livelihood.  I  have  seen  them  give 
themselves  month  after  month,  with  no  remune- 
ration, in  order  to  bear  something  of  this  great 
burden  in  their  own  hands.  These  have  been 
very  poor  women;  I  believe  they  have  gone  back 
richer  than  in  any  other  way  they  could  have 
been.  Priceless  lessons  have  been  learned  there 
in  that  military  hospital.  It  is  not  the  common 
nursing  of  the  sick,  you  know.  The  routine  is 
there.  A  scientific  responsibility  is  there.  Just 
as  you  know  it — and  of  which  you  no  doubt  are 
heartily  sick. 

There  are  other  things. 

Here  in  these  vast  wards  you  are  brought  into 
contemplation  of  things  you  could  never  see  in 
your  life  anywhere  else :  please  God  you  will  never 
see  again.  You  are  brought  face  to  face  with 
absolute  heroism,  with  the  most  touching  and 
wonderful  courage.  Remember,  you  are  not  nurs- 
ing sick  men;  you  are  nursing  sane,  healthy,  vig- 
orous, splendid  creatures,  cut  down,  hewed  down, 
slaughtered  in  the  very  flower  of  their  life. 

Oh,  it  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  help  these  men  I 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         313 

To  a  woman  of  heart  (and  you  have  one),  to 
a  woman  of  imagination  (and  your  imagination 
is  rich  and  true),  these  experiences  are  precious 
beyond  words. 

Moreover,  you  are  an  English  woman. 

And  your  country  is  cruelly  at  war. 

If  I,  as  an  American,  feel  these  things  in  the 
wards  with  the  English  Tommies  and  French  sol- 
diers, I  wonder  to  the  very  depths  of  my  heart 
how  their  own  women  bear  it  and  live. 

Here,  as  I  write  you,  I  am  sitting  a  little  above 
the  darkened  streets  of  darkened  London.  You 
cannot  think  how  this  city  that  I  love  impresses 
me  to-night.  England  has  always  been  to  me  the 
most  wonderful  country  of  all  countries,  except 
my  own.  No  doubt  you  think  that  is  strange  be- 
cause I  live  in  France.  France  is  sublime, — ^but 
I  am  talking  of  England.  To  me  the  very  name, 
the  very  word,  has  a  sonorous  beauty  that  makes 
something  ring  through  me  every  time  it  is  said. 
It  is  my  language,  to  me  the  most  beautiful  of 
all,  and  I  am  sure  that  far  back  in  my  ancestry 
— Dutch  as  it  is,  Latin  as  it  is — some  Anglo- 
Saxon  forebear  has  left  the  strongest  mark  upon 
my  fibre  and  my  mind. 

When  this  war  is  all  over,  every  nation  will' 
know  England  better  than  it  knows  her  now  and 
will  love  her  better  than  she  is  loved  to-day. 
This  great  Empire  on  which  the  sun  never  sets, 
which  all  seas  wash;  this  Empire  whose  respon- 
sibility has  been  so  tremendous  at  the  moment 
of  its  mother's  need,  the  force  that  England  is, 
the  civilisation  it  represents,   the  understanding 


314  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

of  peoples  and  races  that  England  has,  and  the 
Goodness  and  the  Benevolence  that  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  people  represent,  will  be  understood  after 
the  war  as  it  never  has  been  understood  before. 

I  hope  I  am  in  no  wise  disloyal  to  France, 
where  I  live,  and  which  I  love.  But  there  has 
been  too  much  criticism  of  England  to  please  the 
few  who  know  something  of  what  she  is  doing, 
what  she  can  do,  and  what  she  will  do  yet.  Not 
a  boat  crosses  the  sea  to-day  but  owes  its  safety 
to  England;  all  the  commerce  of  the  world  is  in 
her  hands,  and  long  ago  the  war  would  have 
reached  its  result  if  it  had  not  been  for  her. 

I  stop  as  I  write,  to  look  down  from  my  win- 
dow here  at  the  Carlton,  into  these  shadowy 
streets;  every  lamp  wears  its  hood;  but  in  the 
darkness  I  can  see  them  go — that  long,  long  line. 
To-night  it  happens  to  be  a  detachment  of  a  High- 
land regiment,  marching  down  to  Charing  Cross. 
They  go  silently.  There  is  no  music.  And,  so 
many  of  them  gone,  how  will  they  come  home? 

I  have  seen  some  of  those  who  did  come  home 
as  far  as  France.  I  have  stood  by  their  side 
and  have  heard  them,  as  they  looked  up  to 
me,  say,  "Thank  you.  Nurse,"  and  I  have  done 
what  I  could  for  them,  and  they  are  not  my 
people. 

Why  don't  you  come  to  England? 

M.  V. 


MADAME  ROBRET  HUGUES  LE  ROUX//*   '.       ','.*  \    •  •'}  •'.•  •  •'.*• 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         315 
To  Madame  Hugues  Le  Roux. 

London,  November  3rd,  191 5. 

Dear  Bessie, 

You  will  be  interested  I  know  in  a  book  that 
Mr.  Lane  is  about  to  publish.  It  is  called  "A 
Book  of  Belgium's  Gratitude."  It  is  a  graceful 
and  touching  idea.  The  refugees  whom  England 
and  America  have  housed  and  helped  and  saved 
have  conceived  the  idea  of  publishing  a  volume 
which  shall  be  an  expression  of  their  appreciation 
to  the  Empire  and  the  United  States.  The  Neu- 
trality of  Belgium,  the  British  Guarantee,  the  Bel- 
gian Relief  Fund,  England's  Organisation  of  Hos- 
pitality, and  many  other  things  relative  to  the 
conditions  are  in  the  book.  It  is  under  the  pat- 
ronage of  the  King  of  the  Belgians,  and  among 
the  Committee  are  Emile  Cammaerts,  Emile 
Claus,  Henri  Davignon,  Jules  Destree,  Paul  Lam- 
botte,  Baron  Moncheur,  and  Chevalier  E.  Carton 
de  Wiart.  Goblet  d'Alviella,  the  Belgian  Minister 
of  Finance,  Count  Lalaing,  Maeterlinck,  M.  Van- 
dervelde,  and  Emile  Verhaeren,  too,  are  contribu- 
ting to  the  volume.  It  interests  me  enormously, 
and  I  think  it  will  be  a  great  document.  It  will  be 
printed  in  French  and  English  and  W.  J.  Locke 
has  undertaken  to  act  as  Translation  Editor. 
Miss  Margaret  Lavington  is  acting  as  Secretary. 
The  book  is  written  and  illustrated  by  the  most 
prominent  Belgian  Refugees  in  England  and 
America,  and  Lord  Curzon,  Lord  Cromer,  Lord 
Dillon,  Lord  Latymer,  Lady  Paget,  the  Right 
Hon.  Herbert  Samuel,  Miss  Elizabeth  Asquith, 


3i6  WAR  LETTERS  OF 

Mrs.  Lewis  Harcourt,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  J.  H. 
Wardi  Miss  May  Sinclair,  Horace  Annesley  Va- 
chell,  and  many  others  are  translating  these  trib- 
utes to  England.  The  more  formal  announce- 
ment of  the  book  is:  A  Book  of  Belgium's 
Gratitude  :  In  recognition  of  the  help  and  hospi- 
tality given  by  the  British  Empire,  and  of  the  re- 
lief bestowed  by  the  United  States  of  America 
during  the  Great  War. 

I  am  very  proud  that  Eugene  d'AlvIella  is 
amongst  these  authors. 

This  is  my  eighth  trip  across  the  Channel  since 
the  war  began,  and  It  has  taken  me  twenty-four 
hours  to  come.  You  will  be  surprised,  I  know, 
dear,  to  learn  that  I  am  going  to  New  York. 
You  will  be  sorry  too.  I  shall  be  "Home  for 
Christmas."  Do  you  know  I  am  awfully  pleased 
that  ''Good  Housekeeping"  has  featured  one  of 
my  "letters  that  never  were  written"  in  an  enor- 
mous advertisement,  "Home  for  Christmas" !  I 
hope  with  all  my  heart  that  we  will  all  be  back  In 
Paris  then  and  have  one  of  those  wonderful  re- 
unions for  which  we  plan  so  often,  and  which, 
alas!  do  not  seem  to  come.  I  wonder  whether 
you  will  pass  your  Christmas  In  Petrograd?  And 
perhaps  I  shall  be  on  the  sea. 

I  never  felt  so  terribly  saying  good-bye  to 
Mother  as  this  time.  You  cannot  think  how  sweet 
she  was,  how  brave  and  truly  charming.  In  her 
prettiest  dress,  her  silver  hair  a  glory  around  her 
face,  she  stood  with  Mabel  in  the  open  window 
of  her  little  house  and  waved  me  such  a  gallant 


AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN         317 

good-bye.  Oh,  she  Is  a  wonderful  woman  I 
There  is  no  one  like  her.  I  shall  be  able  to  bear 
old  age,  I  think,  if  year  by  year  I  grow  more 
tender  and  more  understanding  towards  it.  And 
yet  some  one  said  to  me  once  that  the  best  prep- 
aration for  old  age  was  to  keep  in  touch  with 
the  standpoints  of  the  young. 

It  may  be  hard  in  a  way  to  be  in  New  York 
just  now.  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  find  it. 
It  seems  to  me  from  here  that  the  thirty  million 
Germans  have  multiphed  and  multiplied  until 
they  rule  the  spirit  of  my  country.  But  this  can- 
not be  so — It  cannot  be  so.  I  long  so  deeply  to 
see  In  all  Americans  the  proper  understanding  of 
this  great  Issue,  not  an  individual  one,  but  a  com- 
mon one — the  issue  that  should  not  only  try  men's 
souls,  but  make  men's  souls.  America  does  not 
seem  to  realise  that  this  Cause  is  a  cause  com- 
mon to  humanity,  to  Christianity,  and  to  man- 
hood. 

In  the  old  days,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  an- 
cestors of  mine,  French  and  Dutch,  came  to  Amer- 
ica to  make  their  homeland  there.  In  those  days 
freedom  and  idealism  were  quite  enough  on  which 
to  build  the  foundations  of  a  country  and  a  state. 
I  feel  in  my  soul  that  they  are  enough  to  build 
on  and  to  fight  for  to-day. 

It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  a  patriotic  American  to 
see  his  country  insulted,  the  lives  of  its  people 
sacrificed,  its  property  destroyed  with  wanton  in- 
difference, and  to  see  across  its  whole  fair  shape 
the  shadow  of  that  Mailed  Hand  which  is  dis- 
figuring Europe. 


3i8  WAR  LETTERS 

I  followed  through  the  Matin  your  progress 
in  the  East,  and  you  cannot  think  with  what  in- 
tense interest  I  shall  follow  your  journey  home. 

London  to-night  is  a  little  darker,  the  lamps, 
once  softened,  are  now  encircled  by  blue  shades, 
and  there  is  a  more  marked  absence  of  men.  Here 
the  evidences  of  what  we  all  know  are  neverthe- 
less not  so  great. 

Under  your  window  (for  I  stayed  in  your  house 
just  now  while  I  was  in  Paris)  all  day  long  passed 
that  sacred  and  solemn  procession  of  the  wounded, 
men  without  legs  and  arms,  blind,  and  disfigured. 
It  seemed  as  though  those  who  could  walk  at 
all  had  been  turned  into  the  streets  to  make  room 
for  the  flood  of  newly  wounded  men.  It  is  ter- 
rible. 

I  embark  to-morrow  with  faith  because  I  have 
such  confidence  in  England,  and  it  has  been  a 
source  somewhat  of  amusement  to  me  when  I 
have  heard  the  United  States  diplomats  flatter 
themselves  that  they  have  affected  submarine  war- 
fare by  Notes.  England,  mighty  upon  the  seas, 
has  done  it  all,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  their 
fleet  and  the  Genius  of  Marine  there  wouldn't 
be  any  Europe  such  as  we  know  it  to-day. 

I  send  my  greetings  to  Robert  and  to  you,  and 
they  will  find  you  on  your  far-off  mission  where 
you  have  gone  to  follow  the  war  in  the  Far  East, 
and  I  send  you  what  is  to  us  all  a  summons  and  a 
hope:     "Home  for  Christmas.'* 

M.  V.  V. 


WAR  POEMS 

BY 

MARIE   VAN  VORST 


TO  ARMS  I 

This  IS  the  moment  of  great  issues.    Men 
Are  made  to-day,  while  kingdoms  rise  and  fall. 
Small  souls  are  crushed  with  cowards  to  the  wall, 
And  petty  interests  never  rise  again. 
To  arms!     Where  is  the  hesitation  when 
King,  country  and  the  land  that  bore  you  call? 
You  who  have  bought  a  piece  of  land  must  go ; 
You  who  have  married  a  wife  must  leave  her 

side; 
Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead — for  far  and  wide 
One  summons  echoes  all  the  islands  through. 
Peace  sickens  and  the  word  has  lost  its  charms. 
Would  you  be  missing,  when  the  victors  come. 
From   the   glad   ranks    as  they   march   proudly 

home? 
For  King  and  for  your  country,  arm  I    To  arms  I 


321 


SEND  TOMMY  TO  THE  WAR! 

WeVe  sent  them  Vross  the  Channel  and  they 
go  and  they  go ; 
For  they  are  soldiers,  dearie,  with  the  fife  and 
the  drum; 
And  we  must  stay  behind  and  make  the  bandages 
and  sew, 
And  wait  for  what  the   ships  will  bring  us 
home.  .  .  . 
And  Now's  the  time  for  women  to  shew  their 
pluck  and  nerve. 
And  bear  whatever  tidings  war  may  bring; 
And  Tommy's  little   English  girl   can  best  her 
lover  serve 
Who  kisses  him  and  blesses  him  and  gives  him 
to  his  King. 


322 


AMERICA  TO  ENGLAND 

Hail,   England!     We  who  stand  and  may  not 
serve, 

We  who  must  watch  thy  glory,  cry  to  thee 
Our  Aves  and  our  Vales,  thus  to  nerve 

Thy  Navy's  strength  as  it  puts  out  to  sea. 

Aliens?    We  are  thy  sons  and  daughters  born — 
Of  one  blood;  dour  defenders  to  the  bone. 

When  we  were  torn  from  thee  our  breasts  were 
torn, 
And  Liberty  could  heal  the  wound  alone. 

To-day  afar  we  wait  thy  victories — 

Children  and  lovers  from  across  the  wave. 

Hail  England!    We  will  call  upon  the  seas 
Thy  prows  with  kisses  of  the  foam  to  lave ! 

Mother,  we  love  thee  and  we  give  thee  hail. 
And  thy  staunch  sons  our  brothers  crowned 
shall  be. 

As,  true  to  ancient  history,  they  sail. 

Great  Queen,  to  the  dominion  of  the  sea. 


323 


THE  OVERSEAS  LEGIONS 

The  children  you  have  nurtured,  Empress,  see — 
They   come   to    float   your  banners — shore    and 

shore, 
Calm  azure  coast  and  Islands  multlflore 
Suddenly  team  with  living  answer :  We 
Are  ready,  and  If  ever  fiefs  before. 
Sons  now,  henceforth!     What  orders.  Majesty? 

Swarthy  the  bands,  dark-brown  and  fine  of  limb — 
Lo,  like  a  cloud  they  rise  against  the  sun. 
And  men  shall  hear,  before  the  war  Is  done, 
How  India  chants  the  EmpIre^s  battle  hymn. 
Link  upon  link,  until  the  chain  is  one, 
They  gather  from  the  distant  borders  dim. 

Heavy  the  wheat-fields  lie  beneath  the  heat 
Of  August  suns,  ungarnered.    Strength  and  worth 
Of  vigorous  labourer  have  all  gone  forth 
The  warlike  tide  of  foreign  field  to  meet. 
Canada  sends  her  farmers  from  the  North 
To  harvest  in  for  England  living  wheat. 

The  sea-brow*d  islands  hear  the  rolling  drum, 
As  through  the  Empire's  heart  the  shock  is  felt 
Of  war.    And  men  forget  that  they  have  dwelt 
Afar  from  England  and  they  turn  them  home, 
Africa  leaves  her  herds  upon  the  veldt. 
What  orders,  England?    See,  your  legions  come  I 


324 


THE  AMERICAN  VOLUNTEERS 

Neutral!    America,  you  cannot  give 

To  your  sons'  souls  neutrality.    Your  powers 

Are  sovereign,  Mother,  but  past  histories  live 
In  hearts  as  young  as  ours. 

We  who  are  free  disdain  oppression,  lust 
And  infamous  raid.    We  have  been  pioneers 

For  freedom  and  our  code  of  honour  must 
Dry  and  not  startle  tears. 

We've  read  of  Lafayette,  who  came  to  give 
His    youth,    with    his    companions    and    their 
powers. 

To  help  the  Colonies — and  heroes  live 
In  hearts  as  young  as  ours  I 

Neutral?     We  who  go   forth  with  sword  and 
lance, 

A  little  band  to  swell  the  battle's  flow, 
Go  willingly,  to  pay  again  to  France 

Some  of  the  debt  we  owe. 


32s 


LOUVAIN 

The  harvest  moon  hangs  red  as  blood 
Up  in  the  August  sky; 
Over  the  fertile  wheat  and  rye? 
Over  the  Kaiser's  harvest  brown — 
The  living  and  the  dead  that  lie 
By  German  scythe  cut  down. 

For  this  is  the  glorious,  glistening 
Time  of  the  year  when  the  peaceful  sing 
Harvest-home  and  the  warm  fields  bring 
Fruit  in  plenty  for  peasant  and  king. 
Look — where  the  war-mists  sink  and  clingl 
It  is  the  Kaiser's  harvesting/ 

Youth  and  his  beautiful  brother  Toil, 
Science  and  Art  and  Thrift, 
Fill  the  age  with  their  precious  gift: 
To  live  in  the  calm  years'  long  renown? 
To  lie  in  the  mire  and  blood-red  drift, 
By  German  heel  crushed  down! 

For  this  is  the  glorious,  glistening 
Twentieth  century.     Let  it  ring 
Down  through  the  years,  a  curse  to  bring. 
Till  the  memory  rots  with  the  hate  they  bring  I 
Look — where  the  reddened  war-mists  cling! 
It  is  the  Kaiser's  harvesting! 


326 


THE  DISAPPOINTED  UHLAN 

My  brother  Fritz  has  seen  Termonde, 
And  all  the  country  there  beyond; 
And  Franzel  helped  to  sack  Louvain 
And  saw  the  streets  piled  up  with  slain 
And  houses  with  their  roofs  on  fire: 
But  /  have  not  seen  Paris,  Sire  I 

The  Prussian  Guards  have  Brussels  seen, 
And  marched  the  goose-step  on  the  green 
Of  private  park.    The  — th  Hussars 
Have  seen  old  Antwerp  'neath  the  stars 
Wait  for  the  Zeppelin's  murderous  fire: 
But  /  have  not  seen  Paris,  Sire ! 

The  Russians  have  seen  Lemburg  and 
The  forts  where  Posen's  sentries  stand; 
And  what  the  Russians  have  not  seen 
Perhaps  they'll  tell  us  in  Berlin, 
With  victors'  pride  and  hearts  on  fire. 
And  /  have  not  seen  Paris,  Sire ! 

I  came  from  far  beyond  the  Rhine, 
To  see  new  lands,  to  drink  strange  wine, 
To  kiss  strange  women's  lips  and  lay 
Their  lands  waste,  and  their  men  to  slay. 
My  friends  saw  Rheims  Cathedral  spire: 
But  /  have  not  seen  Paris,  Sire ! 

Und  Du — who  led  us  on,  who  drew 
Us  from  our  peaceful  homes  ?    Ach !    Du, 
Whose  eyes  with  greed  were  fastened  on 
The  great  dome  of  Napoleon, 
To  crush  a  nation  dared  aspire  I 
Such  monarchs  have  their  Paris,  Sire  I 
327 


TO  BELGIUM 

.  .  .  And  what  of  you,  who  bore  the  brunt 
And  horror  of  that  mad  advance  ? 

Who  met  the  insolent  affront 

Of  armies  marching  on  to  France  ? 

Who  stood  against  the  sword  and  spear, 
And  hail  and  rain  of  shot  and  shell. 

Crying  out:  "Brother,  I  am  here. 

Brother!" — and  stayed  the  living  hell. 

And  what  of  you?    Then  England  spoke 
And  all  her  farthest  Empire  heard: 

Living  and  royal  she  awoke 
In  answer  to  the  kingly  word. 

And  France?    Long  years,  long  years  shall  tell 
Her  gratitude,  who  breathless  drew 

Her  forces  on! — All  shall  be  well, 
Belgium,  great  brother,  well  with  you. 


328 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  ijrior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


,«^u)  m  ai3 -fff^ 


ffgPlil  MAY?    'TS-IPW*  6 


LD2lA-20m-3,'73 
(Q86778l0)476-A-31 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


iVil34130 

THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


